ear before:

If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.

Sissy and Brackenhill rose before him--the melancholy orchard-walk, the
little hands which lay in his on that November day. He felt a dull pain,
yet what could he do? what could he have done? There was a terrible
mistake somewhere, but he could not say where. If he had married Sissy,
would it not have been there? He woke up suddenly. Young Lisle was
speaking, and Judith was saying, "Let Mr. Thorne choose."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Percival. "Shall it be 'Drink to me only with
thine eyes'?"

He sang it well. His voice was strong and full, and the sweet
old-fashioned courtesy of compliment suited him exactly. The last word
had scarcely left his lips when the door opened, and Emma showed in Mr.
Clifton of St. Sylvester's.

The clergyman came forward, black-coated, smooth-shaven, with watchful
glances which seemed ever looking out for that lay co-operation we hear
so much of now. Lisle looked over his shoulder and sprang up to receive
him. The visitor tried to get his umbrella and two or three books into
the hand which already held his hat, and one little volume fell to the
floor. Percival picked it up and smoothed the pages. "Mr. Thorne--Mr.
Clifton," said the young organist as the book was restored to its owner.
Percival bowed gravely, and Mr. Clifton did not shake hands, as he would
have done if the young man's manner had been less reserved. He was
lavish of such greetings. A clergyman might shake hands with any one.

"I'll not detain you long, Lisle," he said. "But I wanted to speak to
you about the choir-practice to-morrow." And there ensued a little
business-talk between parson and organist. Judith took up a bit of work
and Percival leant against the chimney-piece. Presently Lisle went back
to the piano and tried over a hymn-tune which Mr. Clifton had brought.
The clergyman stood solemnly by. "I met Gordon a few minutes ago," he
said. "He was with his brother and some other men of the same stamp. If
he mixes himself up with that set, he must go."

"You'll miss him in the choir, Mr. Clifton," said Bertie.

"He must choose between such associates and the choir," the other
replied. The words were moderate enough, but the tone was austere.

"Especially at Easter," said Bertie, still playing.

"What of that?" demanded the other. "I would rather have no choir at St.
Sylvester's than have men in it whose way of life during the we