Dr. Sugg approached Jeffray with an expression of unusual solemnity that morning, while the peacocks strutted in sapphire and gold and the white pigeons coquetted on the columbary roof. “Good-morning, sir. I hope the Lady Letitia is well?” Jeffray answered for his aunt’s health and shook the parson by the hand. They boasted a mutual liking for each other, for though poor Sugg did not live the life of a St. Francis, he was a veritable mine of culture and erudition when compared with the squirearchs of the Sussex weald. “Well, sir, I am not a bird of happy omen.” The rector blew his nose and flapped his scarlet handkerchief in the air. “What evil tidings am I to hear?” asked Jeffray, smiling. “Just this, sir, that the small-pox is said to be in Rodenham.” “The small-pox, Sugg!” “A bad business, Mr. Richard, for we have been free of the plague these many years. I refer to the plague, sir, and not to the Methodists.” “How was it brought into the village?” “By a peddler fellow from Lewes, I have heard. He had an attic at the Wheat Sheaf for a night, and George Gogg’s girl, Kate, has sickened with what Surgeon Stott says is the yellow-pox, and I suppose he knows. Where it will end, sir, God only can tell.” Richard was no coward, but he looked grave enough over Dr. Sugg’s tidings. He knew that the disease was Death’s right-hand man in England, and that there were more folk who were scarred than there were folk who had gone free. High and low dreaded the scourge; the toper went white over his punch-bowl; madam in her perfumed boudoir shivered at the thought of the marring of her face. “What is being done?” he asked, quietly. “Done, sir; what can be done? I don’t suppose there are five souls in the village who have ever been inoculated. I trust, Mr. Richard, that you are one of them.” “I followed Lady Montague’s example—before I went abroad.” “Then you should be safe, sir. But those cottagers yonder would breed the pest as a dunghill breeds flies. Then there is my poor Mary. If it spreads, sir, she’ll take it as she takes everything—mumps, measles, and the ague. Good God, Mr. Richard, I lost my wife by the small-pox! What should I do if I lost my girl?” The rector’s voluminous voice quavered with honest feeling. He blew his nose vigorously, blinked his eyes, and looked at Jeffray with lugubrious eagerness. Richard was touched by the old man’s distress. Poor Mary Sugg; her plain face could not bear further detractions from its beauty. “Why not take her away?” he asked. A mild frown spread itself across the rector’s forehead. He stared into the distance and shook his head.