man, who growled
audibly, 'You've no business in my pew!'

However, with the words, 'Beg your pardon,' they stepped out with a
little amusement in their eyes, when a spruce young woman sprang up from
the opposite pew, with a scandalised whisper--

'Mr. Ruddiman, it's his Lordship! Allow me, my Lord--your own seat--'

And she marshalled them up to the choir followed closely by Mr. Ruddiman,
ruddier than ever, and butcher all over, in a perfect agony of apology,
which Lord Northmoor in vain endeavoured to suppress or silence, till,
when the guide had pointed to a handsome heavy carved seat with elaborate
cushions, he gave a final gasp of, 'You'll not remember it in the custom,
my Lord,' and departed, leaving his Lordship almost equally scarlet with
annoyance at the place and time of the demonstration, though, happily,
the clergyman had not yet appeared, in his long and much-tumbled
surplice.

It was a case of a partial restoration of a church in the dawn of such
doings, when the horsebox was removed, but the great family could not be
routed out of the chancel, so there were the seats, where the choir ought
to have sat, beneath a very ugly east window, bedecked with the Morton
arms. In the other division of the seat was a pale lady in black, with a
little girl, Lady Adela Morton, no doubt, and opposite were the servants,
and the school children sat crowded on the steps. It was not such a
service as had been the custom of the Hurminster churches; and the
singing, such as it was, depended on the thin shrill voices of the
children, assisted by Lady Adela and the mistress; the sermon was dull
and long, and altogether there was something disheartening about the
whole.

Lady Adela had a gentle, sweet countenance and a simple devout manner;
but it was disappointing that she did not attempt to address the
newcomers, though they passed her just outside the churchyard, talking to
an old man. Lady Kenton would surely have welcomed them.

CHAPTER XII
THE BURTHEN OF HONOURS

A fearful affair to the new possessors of Northmoor was the matter of
morning calls. The first that befell them, as in duty bound, was that
from the Vicar. They were peaceably writing their letters in the
library, and hoping soon to go out to explore the Park, when Mr. Woodman
was announced, and was found a lonely black speck in the big dreary
drawing-room, a very state room, indeed, which nobody had ever willingly
inhabited. The Vicar was