o some unseen person, "Have you seen Miss Deronnais anywhere?"

Maggie put the letter in her pocket and hurried through from the
orchard.

"Yes?" she said, with a half hope.

"Come in, my dear, and tell me what you think of those new teacups in
the _Bon Marche_ catalogue," said the old lady. "There seem some
beautiful new designs, and we want another set."

Maggie bowed to the inevitable. But as they passed up the garden her
resolution was precipitated.

"Can you let me go by twelve," she said. "I rather want to see Father
Mahon about something."

"My dear, I shall not keep you three minutes," protested the old lady.

And they went in to talk for an hour and three-quarters.

II

Father Mahon was a conscientious priest. He said his mass at eight
o'clock; he breakfasted at nine; he performed certain devotions till
half-past ten; read the paper till eleven, and theology till twelve.
Then he considered himself at liberty to do what he liked till his
dinner at one. (The rest of his day does not concern us just now.)

He, too, was looking round his garden this morning--a fine, solid
figure of a man, in rather baggy trousers, short coat, and expansive
waistcoat, with every button doing its duty. He too, like Mr. James
Morton, had his beat, an even narrower one than the barrister's, and
even better trodden, for he never strayed off it at all, except for
four short weeks in the summer, when he hurried across to Ireland and
got up late, and went on picnics with other ecclesiastics in straw
hats, and joined in cheerful songs in the evening. He was a priest,
with perfectly defined duties, and of admirable punctuality and
conscientiousness in doing them. He disliked the English quite
extraordinarily; but his sense of duty was such that they never
suspected it; and his flock of Saxons adored him as people only can
adore a brisk, businesslike man with a large heart and peremptory
ways, who is their guide and father, and is perfectly aware of it. His
sermons consisted of cold-cut blocks of dogma taken perseveringly from
sermon outlines and served up Sunday by Sunday with a sauce of a
slight and delightful brogue. He could never have kindled the Thames,
nor indeed any river at all, but he could bridge them with solid
stones; and this is, perhaps, even more desirable.

Maggie had begun by disliking him. She had thought him rather coarse
and stupid; but she had changed her mind. He was not what may be
called subtle; he had