lents, and is likely to shine at the
bar if he continues in his resolution to go to it. I have just had an
invitation to spend a few days with him, but do not think I shall have
time before I go to be ordained.'

'Has your aunt settled the curacy?' asked Freda, with a wicked laugh in
the corner of her eye.

'I think and hope so,' replied Rowland, answering the visible smile by a
blush; 'she has done her utmost to obtain it for me.'

'Ah! she was well connected, and has some interest, and a--a great deal
of energy, and all that sort of thing; I should think she was a clever,
or I mean a--an enterprising woman.'

Mr Gwynne hesitated as he said this, not admiring the lady in question,
yet thinking it incumbent upon him to pay her a compliment. His daughter
glanced inquiringly at Rowland, as if wondering what he could say to so
dubious a speech. He appeared equally at a loss, and, as he turned from
Mr Gwynne for a moment, caught Miss Gwynne's mirthful eye. He could not
help smiling, but said with much spirit,--

'My aunt has been very good to me, Mr Gwynne, and I owe her a heavy debt
of gratitude for giving me at least the opportunity of getting on in the
world.'

'Well, I like him for that,' thought Freda; 'and are you going to
London?' she asked aloud, with a degree of interest.

'I am to be ordained by the Bishop of London to a city curacy,' was the
reply.

'Will you allow me to take wine with you and wish you success, sir?'
said Mr Gwynne. 'Who knows but we may see you Bishop of London some day?
Miss Hall, Freda, will you join us?'

Mr Gwynne became quite animated. He felt proud that the son of his most
respectable tenant should be going to take a London curacy.

Freda bent rather less stiffly than usual to Mr Rowland Prothero. She
was annoyed with herself for feeling more inclined to be friendly with
him since she had heard that he was intimate with young Neville, and was
to be ordained by the Bishop of London.

There was more conversation, which it is unnecessary to repeat; but in
due course of time the ladies retired to the drawing-room, where they
found Miss Nugent awaiting them.

'Whose _beaux yeux_ do you think we have in the dining-room?' asked
Freda.

'I am thure I cannot gueth; perhapth Thir Hugh Prythe's,' Miss Nugent
lisped.

'Do you call his _beaux yeux_? Little ferret eyes like his! No; guess
again.'

'Young Rithe Rithe?'

'Wrong again.'

'Not Captain Lewith?'

'Some one much neare