emonth in his rural benefice the unfortunate cleric made
a calculation that he was legally responsible for rather more than
twice the sum of money represented by his stipend and the offertories.
The church needed a new roof; the parsonage was barely habitable for
long lack of repairs; the church school lost its teacher through
default of salary--and so on. With endless difficulty Mr. Bride escaped
from his vicarage to freedom and semi-starvation, and deemed himself
very lucky indeed when at length he regained levitical harbourage.

These things had his daughter watched with her intent dark eyes;
Constance Bride did not feel kindly disposed towards the Church of
England as by law established. She had seen her mother sink under
penury and humiliation and all unmerited hardship; she had seen her
father changed from a vigorous, hopeful, kindly man to an embittered
pessimist. As for herself, sound health and a good endowment of brains
enabled her to make a way in the world. Luckily, she was a sole child:
her father managed to give her a decent education till she was old
enough to live by teaching. But teaching was not her vocation. Looking
round for possibilities, Constance hit upon the idea of studying
pharmaceutics and becoming a dispenser; wherein, with long, steady
effort, she at length succeeded. This project had already been shaped
whilst the Brides were at Alverholme; Mrs. Lashmar had since heard of
Constance as employed in the dispensary of a midland hospital.

"Hollingford?" remarked the vicar, as they walked on. "I think I
remember that you have relatives there."

"I was born there, and I have an old aunt still living in the town--she
keeps a little baker's shop."

Mr. Lashmar, though a philosopher, was not used to this bluntness of
revelation; it gave him a slight shock, evinced in a troublous rolling
of the eyes.

"Ha! yes!--I trust you will dine with us this evening, Miss Bride?"

"Thank you, I can't dine; I want to leave by an early evening train.
But I should like to see Mrs. Lashmar, if she is at home."

"She will be delighted. I must beg you to pardon me for leaving you--an
appointment at the schools; but I will get home as soon as possible.
Pray excuse me."

"Why, of course, Mr. Lashmar. I haven't forgotten the way to the
vicarage."

She pursued it, and in a few minutes rang the bell. Mrs. Lashmar was in
the dining-room, busy with a female parishioner whose self-will in the
treatment of infants'