It was a new vicar, who had been in Wanley but a couple of days, and had this morning officiated for the first time at the church. ‘What a voice he has!’ was the lady’s reply. ‘Hasn’t he? And such a hairy man! They say he’s very learned; but his sermon was very simple--didn’t you think so?’ ‘Yes, I liked it. Only he pronounces certain words strangely.’ ‘Oh, has Mr. Eldon come yet?’ was the young lady’s next question. ‘He hadn’t arrived this morning. Isn’t it extraordinary? He must be out of England.’ ‘But surely Mrs. Eldon knows his address, and he can’t be so very far away.’ As she spoke she looked down the pathway by which she had come, and of a sudden her face exhibited alarm. ‘Oh, Mrs. Waltham!’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘If Mr. Wyvern isn’t coming to see you! I’m afraid to meet him. Do let me pop in and hide till I can get away without being seen.’ The front door stood ajar, and the girl at once ran into the house. Mrs. Waltham came into the passage laughing. ‘May I go to the top of the stairs?’ asked the other nervously. ‘You know how absurdly shy I am. No, I’ll run out into the garden behind; then I can steal round as soon as he comes in.’ She escaped, and in a minute or two the new vicar presented himself at the door. A little maid might well have some apprehension in facing him, for Mr. Wyvern was of vast proportions and leonine in aspect. With the exception of one ungloved hand and the scant proportions of his face which were not hidden by hair, he was wholly black in hue; an enormous beard, the colour of jet, concealed the linen about his throat, and a veritable mane, dark as night, fell upon his shoulders. His features were not ill-matched with this sable garniture; their expression was a fixed severity; his eye regarded you with stern scrutiny, and passed from the examination to a melancholy reflectiveness. Yet his appearance was suggestive of anything but ill-nature; contradictory though it may seem, the face was a pleasant one, inviting to confidence, to respect; if he could only have smiled, the tender humanity which lurked in the lines of his countenance would have become evident. His age was probably a little short of fifty. A servant replied to his knock, and, after falling back in a momentary alarm, introduced him to the sitting-room. He took Mrs. Waltham’s hand silently, fixed upon her the full orbs of his dark eyes, and then, whilst still retaining her fingers, looked thoughtfully about the room. It was a pleasant little parlour, with many an evidence of refinement in those who occupied it. Mr. Wyvern showed something like a look of satisfaction. He seated himself, and the chair creaked ominously beneath him. Then he again scrutinised Mrs. Waltham.