The very first Sunday that this was tried, Mr Lawrence Paulby broke out into a vexatious perspiration that made his head shine; for in spite of all his practice at the schoolroom, no matter how he tried to draw their attention to the coming task, dwelling as he did upon such words at the end of a prayer as "Be with us all--ever--m--o--r--e," the chanted "Amen," delivered out of tune by the inattentive young surpliced choir, aided and abetted by the schoolmaster Bone's bass, was something so shocking that, if it had been anything but a sacred service, it might have been called a burlesque. It did not matter whether he was himself intoning, or listening to Mr Mallow's rich deep voice, the Curate always sat in agony lest any one should laugh, a horror that he could not contemplate without a shudder, and he wished in his heart that the Rector would take it into his head to go again. Parish business took the Curate over to the rectory on the morning succeeding the death of Tom Morrison's little one. He had been up to town, and returned only late the past night, the result being that he had not heard of the wheelwright's trouble, or he would at once have called. He was a very nervous man, and the probabilities were that had he known what was about to happen, he would have stayed away. He had expected to be asked to stay lunch, and he had stayed. Then conversation had ensued on the forthcoming visitation of the bishop of the diocese. Cyril Mallow had made two or three remarks evidently intended to "chaff the Curate," as he would have termed it, and to provoke a laugh from his sisters; but in neither case was he successful, and as soon as lunch was over, the Rector rose and led the way to his study, where he waved his hand towards a chair. The Curate had hardly taken his seat, feeling rather oppressed at his principal's grand surroundings as contrasted with his own modest apartments at the old rectory, when the butler entered softly to announce that the wheelwright wished to see him. The Curate rose to leave. "No, no, sit still," said the Rector. "That will do, Edwards; I will ring," and the butler retired. "I am glad you are here, Paulby; I was going to speak upon this business. You have heard of it, I suppose?" "Heard? Of what?" said the Curate. "Morrison's child is dead," said the Rector. "The baby! God bless me!" ejaculated the Curate. "I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow," he continued, blushing like a girl. "It was so shocking. I was so surprised." The Rector bowed gravely, and went and stood with his back to the fireplace, and rang. "You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards," said the Rector, and poor Tom Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which England has always felt so proud.