"Now that," he pursued as he helped himself to a pinch, "was, for so
exalted a personage, passably near a _mot_. 'Your Grace,' said I, 'has a
large Church patronage.' 'To be sure I have.' 'And possibly a
living--with an adequate stipend for a bachelor--might be vacant just
now?' 'As it happens,' said the Duke, 'I have a couple at this moment
waiting for my presentation, and two stacks of letters, each a foot high,
from applicants and the friends of applicants, waiting for my perusal.'
'Might I make bold,' I asked, 'to enquire their worth?' 'There's one in
Norwich worth 900 pounds a year, and another in Cornwall worth 400.
But how the deuce can this concern you, man?' 'The cards are too
expensive for me, your Grace, and I have often made terms with myself that
I would repent of them and end my days in a country living. This comes
suddenly, to be sure; but so, for that matter, does death itself, and a
man who makes a vow should hold himself ready to be taken at his word.'
'But, my dear fellow,' cries his Grace, 'with the best will in the world
you can't repent and end your days in two livings at once.' 'I might try
my best,' said I; 'there are such things as curates to be hired, I
believe, and, at the worst, I was always fond of travelling.'"

The Reverend Timothy stowed away his snuff-box and gave me his arm again.

"The Duke," he continued, "took my point. He is, by the way, not half
such a fool as he looks and is vulgarly supposed to be. He wrote that
same day to his brother-in-law (whom I will take leave to call the Bishop
of Wexcester), and made me its bearer. It is worth quotation. It ran:
'Dear Ted,--Ordain Noy, and oblige yours, Fred.' The answer which I
carried back two days later was equally laconic. 'Dear Fred,--Noy
ordained. Yours, Ted.' Consequently," wound up Mr. Noy, "I am down here
to take over my cure of souls, and had in one of my pockets a sermon
composed for my induction by a gifted young scholar of the University of
Oxford. I paid him fifteen shillings and the best part of a bottle of
brandy for it. The rascals have taken it, and I think they will find some
difficulty in converting it into cash. Hullo! is that a cottage yonder?"

It was a small cottage, thatched and whitewashed, and glimmering in the
moonlight beside the road on which its whitewashed garden-wall abutted.
The moonlight, too, showed that its upper windows were closed with wooden
shutters. Mr. Noy halted before the ga