"And now Shears," said the curate, "(don't put your pipe behind you, man; do you suppose I have not smelt it this half hour--I wish you would buy better tobacco)--you must be off to S---- to-morrow at daylight, and order a chaise to be here, for this gentleman, by nine o'clock at the latest. Do you understand, now?" "Yes, sir, yes. I'll be sure to go. And what name shall I say, sir?" "Name, eh! oh, it doesn't matter. Say for me, of course. And look here: there will be five shillings for you if the chaise is here in time. Ay, you may well make a bow; I told the gentleman it was too much for you." "I'm very much obliged to you both," said Sam slyly, "I'm sure, sir; I'll be off at cock-crow." "There, Sam Shears," said Molly, as soon as they had the kitchen to themselves again, "did you ever hear of one of your new what-d'ye-call-ums ordering a chaise to go ranting about in, I should like to know? What have you got to say now?" "I say," said Sam, "as he's a gentleman, and no mistake." The evening passed away very quietly in the little parlour. The favourable impression made upon Bolton by his guest's manners and conversation was certainly deepened by their further intercourse: but the position seemed felt by both parties to be an awkward one; and when his departure early on the following morning was proposed, Bolton of course made no effort to detain him. Both employed most of the evening in reading; and one or two remarks made by the stranger, as he made his selection from the curate's library, proved at least his acquaintance with the works which it contained, though nothing escaped him, as he wiped the dust from some of Harry's presentation volumes, which could indicate either his agreement or disagreement with the sound divines he was handling, and his clever criticisms were rather those of the bibliographer than the theologian. At last he seemed to bury himself in a volume of old South, and carried it off with him early to his chamber. The morning came, and eight o'clock brought breakfast, and half-past eight the chaise, with Sam Shears fast asleep inside of it. The curate and his guest parted with mutual good-will, and with a short but warm acknowledgment, on the part of the latter, of the hospitality he had received. Sam was not forgotten; he received the promised gratuity with many bows, and did not put his hat on again until the chaise had fairly turned the corner. "Uncommon nice gentleman that, sir, to be sure," said he to his master, with whom be seldom missed the chance of a little conversation, if he could help it--and Bolton was generally good-natured enough to indulge him--"uncommon nice gentleman; what a thousand pities it is he should be a Methody!" "A _what_?" inquired the curate, turning round upon him in ludicrous dismay.