cious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers,
but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as
soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss Julia had
observed that she _never_ heard any one sniff so frightfully as Mr.
Barton did--she had a great mind to offer him her pocket-handkerchief;
and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going _for_ to do a
thing. He, excellent man! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the
morrow; he would set on foot his lending library; in which he had
introduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to the
Dissenters--one especially, purporting to be written by a working man
who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the trouble to
warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting
preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of
that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, he
considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he not
attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine--as evangelical as
anything to be heard in the Independent Chapel; and he made a High-Church
assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters
would feel that 'the parson' was too many for them. Nothing like a man
who combines shrewdness with energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr.
Barton considered, was one of his strong points.

Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver light
that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black
figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the
pale gravestones. He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with
sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the
nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once--that is to say, by the robust
maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the
passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion--even the
small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel,
indefinite kind--with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no
particular expression is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising
from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The house
is quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been gone
to bed. He opens the sitting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife,
as he expected