n, Lorton," he said to me, with an expression of
amiability and mingled pity on his face, that made him look to me like
Mephistopheles, "you will, I know, be sorry for what you've said; and
when you learn good manners I will be glad to speak to you again!" and,
he walked back to the church, with the air of a person who had been
deeply injured, but who had yet the magnanimity to forgive if he could
not forget--wishing adieu to our little party, of whom none but Min had
overheard what I had said, with his usual cordiality, as if nothing had
happened to disturb him.

"Oh, Frank!" exclaimed Min, when he had got out of sight and we were
once more alone, "how could you be so rude and un-courteous--to a
clergyman, too! I'm ashamed of you! I am hurt at any friend of mine
acting like that!"

"But he was so provoking," I stammered, trying to excuse myself. The
tone of Min's voice pained me. It was full of grief and reproach: I
knew its every intonation. "He's always worrying me and rubbing against
me the wrong way!"

"That does not matter, Frank," she replied in the same grave accents, as
coldly as if she was speaking to a stranger--"a gentleman should be a
gentleman always. I tell you what,"--she continued, turning away as she
spoke--"I will never speak to you again, Frank, until you apologise to
Mr Mawley for the language you have used!"

She then left my side, taking Miss Pimpernell's arm and saying something
about having a long chat with her.

The end of it was that she had her way.

I had to go back to search for the curate and ask his pardon, like a dog
with its tail between its legs.

I was certain he would exult over it, and he did.

He had not the generosity to meet me half-way and accept my apology
frankly at once.

He made me humble myself to the full, seizing the opportunity to read me
a long homily on Christian forbearance, in which, I fervently believed
at the time, he was almost as deficient as myself.

However, I had the consolation of knowing that my apology was not made
on his account, but entirely for the sake of my darling Min; although, I
confess, I did not like to see her taking such an interest in him as to
ask it of me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

JEALOUSY.

Whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain!

Some weeks after our conversation in