He made a sharp movement in the direction of the town--stopped short-- went on again--stopped to think of the words he had had with his father, and then, with an impatient "pish!" thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked quickly in the direction that he knew Sage Portlock would take on leaving the school, bent on the mission of causing misery and dissension between two young people just making their first start in life, and sowing the seed of certain weeds that would spring up to the overtopping of much goodly grain. He paused again, hesitating as he neared the rectory gates, and for a moment he seemed as if he would enter. But just then the church clock struck twelve, and the deep-toned bell, as it slowly gave forth, one by one, the tale of strokes announcing that the day had climbed to its greatest height, seemed to bring before Cyril Mallow the scene of the schoolgirls racing out, panting and eager, while Sage Portlock was putting on that natty little hat and long silk scarf she wore when going to and fro. "Oh, what nonsense!" ejaculated Cyril. "What harm? Perhaps I shan't see her after all." He strode off hastily back towards the town, for it was now five minutes past twelve, and just at this time Sage was locking the school door, and enjoying the fresh air, as she thought of Luke Ross with a pleasant little smile upon her lip, and a ruddy tint on the cheek; while just a hundred and twenty miles away Luke Ross had shouldered a spade on his way to the great garden for the hour's manual labour prescribed by the rules of the training school; and, oddly enough, he was not thinking of the piece of earth he was about, in company with many more, to dig, but of Sage Portlock, and the pleasant days when he should be down in the country once again. PART ONE, CHAPTER SIX. MAGISTERIAL FUNCTIONS. People had always said that the Rev Eli Mallow was a most fortunate man, but somehow fate gave him his share of reverses. He had been born with the customary number of bones in his vertebra, wonderfully joined together after Dame Nature's regular custom and good style of workmanship, with suitable muscle and nerve to give proper pliability. The nurse who used to wash and wipe and then powder his delicate young skin considered that he was a beautiful baby, and certainly he had grown up into a very handsome man, an ornament, with his portly form and grey head, to the county bench, to his seat on which he was warmly welcomed back by his neighbours, for however unpopular he might be in the dissent-loving town of Lawford, the Rev Eli Mallow was a favourite in his part of the county. The late Lord Artingale had always been one of the loudest in his praise. "He is a man of breed, sir," his lordship would say. "There's blood and bone in the man. I wish we had more clergymen of his kind. There'd be less poaching in the country, I can tell you, and fewer empty bags."