happened, knew very little of what was transpiring at
the Manor House, but remarked that the worst was over, that the wife of
Poussette was still absent from her home, and that Miss Clairville had
not returned to her vocation.

"Ah," ejaculated Mr. Abercorn thoughtfully, "a peculiar family, a
peculiar family indeed; but they are very fortunate in having you here.
Oh, yes, I am not in the least bigoted, you know,--can't afford to be
down here,--and I only hope you'll stay and make a great success of the
new church. If everything goes well, we'll hold our picnic on the 1st
of November, sort of Harvest Festival and Thanksgiving all in one, and
either I or Mrs. Abercorn will drive over for you, as I suppose you
will not be setting up a horse just yet."

On the day appointed Ringfield was sitting dully enough in his room
over the carpenter's shop. Pauline was lingering on at Poussette's,
partly because she had no other place to go, and partly because
Ringfield was near. Their relations had not outwardly progressed since
the evening on her balcony; several other meetings had taken place, but
once assured that she was free, Ringfield settled to his work,
preferring to put the whole episode from him for a while, until he
could feel satisfied that she might be approached on the subject of the
theatre. Thus their feelings were like Tennyson's wood, all in a mist
of green with nothing perfect; meanwhile only a couple of planks
separated them at this very instant, and, as usual, his thoughts were
hovering about her at this hour, about half-past one o'clock, when he
heard his name called by a younger member of the Gagnon family (a
numerous one of five boys and four little girls), and descended to meet
Mrs. Abercorn. This lady was taking the opportunity, in her role of
auxiliary parson and general parochial assistant, of putting in a good
word for Hawthorne and St. Basil's as she sat in her buggy at the door,
surrounded by Poussette, Martin, and eight or ten children.

An intractable little mare pawed and shuffled in an uncertain frame of
mind, apparently viewing with special disfavour the fiddling of Antoine
Archambault, who had been hanging around the village ever since
Pauline's return. Glancing consciously up, Ringfield thought he
perceived a white hand and gleaming bracelet at the window of his old
room.

"We have a rough drive before us, with a bad four miles in one place,"
said Mrs. Abercorn, "so we'll get away at on