His sermon upon the Third Commandment, about to be preached at Rushford, where the fishermen swore like St. Peter,—that sermon went crack in his pocket at such a shocking ejaculation. Never heeding that, he went on to do what a stout fellow and a gentleman must have done in this emergency. He lifted the drooping figure forth into the open air, touching it only with his hands, timidly and reverently, as if every fair curve were sacred. Then he fetched water in his best Sunday hat—the only chimney–pot he possessed—from the stream trickling through the spire–bed; and he sprinkled it on the broad, white forehead, as if he were christening a baby. The moment he saw that her life was returning, and her deep grey eyes, quiet havens of sorrow, opened and asked where their owner was, and her breast rose like a billow in a place where two tides meet, that moment Octave laid her back against the rugged trunk, in the thick brown cloak which he had fetched when he went for the water; and wrapped it around her, delicately, as if she were taking a nap there. Oh, man of short pipes and hard, bachelor fare, for this thou deservest as good a wife as ever basted a leg of mutton! At last the young lady looked up at him with a deep–drawn sigh, and said— “I am afraid I have been very silly.” “No, indeed, you have not. But I am very sorry for you, because I am dreadfully clumsy.” She glanced at his snowy choker—which he never wore but on Sundays—and, being a very quick–witted young woman, she guessed at once who he was. “Oh, please to tell me—I hope the service is not over at Nowelhurst church.” “The service has been over for a quarter of an hour; because there was no sermon.” “Oh, what shall I do, then? What can I do? I had better never go home again.” This was said to herself in anguish, and Pell saw that he was not meant to hear it. “Can I go, please, to the Rectory? Mr. Rosedew is from home; but Iʼm sure they will give me shelter until my—until I am sent for. I have lost my way in the wood here.” This statement was none of the truest. “To be sure,” said the hasty parson, forgetting about the Rushford bells, the rheumatic clerk, and the quid–chewing pilots—let them turn their quids a bit longer—“to be sure, I will take you there at once. Allow me to introduce myself. How very stupid of me! Octavius Pell, Mr. Rosedewʼs curate at Rushford.” Hereupon “Pello, pepuli, pulsum” (as his friends loved to call him from his driving powers at cricket, and to show that they knew some Latin) executed a noble salaam—quite of the modern school, however, and without the old reduplication (like the load on the back of Christian)—till the duckweed came out of his hat in a body, and fell into the flounce tucket of the beautiful Pearlʼs white skirt.