er and opinions, I am sorry to say, are
not such as are likely to command the respect and affection of a
pure and pious Churchwoman.'

'Opinions, sir? What, is he turning Papist, too?'

'I am afraid, sir, and more than afraid, for he makes no secret of
it himself, that his views tend rather in the opposite direction; to
an infidelity so subversive of the commonest principles of morality,
that I expect, weekly, to hear of some unblushing and disgraceful
outrage against decency, committed by him under its fancied
sanction. And you know, as well as myself, the double danger of
some profligate outbreak, which always attends the miseries of a
disappointed earthly passion.'

'True, very true. We must get the boy out of the way, sir. I must
have him under my eye.'

'Exactly so, sir,' said the subtle vicar, who had been driving at
this very point. 'How much better for him to be here, using his
great talents to the advantage of his family in an honourable
profession, than to remain where he is, debauching body and mind by
hopeless dreams, godless studies, and frivolous excesses.'

'When do you return, sir?'

'An hour hence, if I can be of service to you.'

The banker paused a moment.

'You are a gentleman' (with emphasis on the word), 'and as such I
can trust you.'

'Say, rather, as a clergyman.'

'Pardon me, but I have found your cloth give little additional cause
for confidence. I have been as much bitten by clergymen--I have
seen as sharp practice among them, in money matters as well as in
religious squabbles, as I have in any class. Whether it is that
their book education leaves them very often ignorant of the plain
rules of honour which bind men of the world, or whether their zeal
makes them think that the end justifies the means, I cannot tell;
but--'

'But,' said the vicar, half smiling, half severely, 'you must not
disparage the priesthood before a priest.'

'I know it, I know it; and I beg your pardon: but if you knew the
cause I have to complain. The slipperiness, sir, of one staggering
parson, has set rolling this very avalanche, which gathers size
every moment, and threatens to overwhelm me now, unless that idle
dog Lancelot will condescend to bestir himself, and help me.'

The vicar heard, but said nothing.

'Me, at least, you can trust,' he answered proudly; and honestly,
too--for he was a gentleman by birth and breeding, unselfish and
chivalrous to a fault-