Nether-Applewhite Vicarage, which adjoined the small church, lay snugly within the park, less than half a mile from Pomfret Court. Below it was the village through which flowed the placid Avon. In the days of Mr. Hamlin’s predecessor, a cadet of the Pomfret family, the proximity of vicarage to hall had been regarded as an advantage. The Squire shot and hunted with his parson, who was assuredly not the worse parson for being a sportsman, and each strolled in and out of the other’s house half a dozen times a week. This pleasant and profitable intercourse lasted till the death of the parson. It has been said that Mr. Hamlin was a Radical, but in justice to the Squire it must be added that political differences might easily have been overcome, inasmuch as Sir Geoffrey disliked all politicians, and, although a staunch supporter of the Conservative Association in his Division, confessed handsomely that political arguments bored him to tears. And when his old friend and kinsman passed away, he had sought diligently for his successor and believed fondly that he had found him. Even now, after fifteen years of bickering and increasing estrangement, Sir Geoffrey would have admitted frankly that Hamlin had justified his selection. He was a hard worker and popular—perhaps a shade too popular—in a large straggling parish. More, he preached short rousing sermons which concerned themselves more with conduct than dogma. Since his incumbency, there had been less drunkenness, obscenity, and scandal-mongering. Indeed, in weightier matters, the Squire and he saw eye to eye. They differed hopelessly about non-essentials. Hamlin, a High Churchman, had introduced certain harmless practices, genuflections and the like, into the Ritual. Lady Pomfret was amused at these antics upon the part of a big fellow who could hit a cricket ball for six. Not so the Squire. He rocked with rage. Finally, he rose from his knees, and stumped out of church. A letter was despatched, worded not too temperately. Mr. Hamlin became less acrobatic in front of the altar. The Squire realised that he had behaved hastily. The two men might have become friends after this regrettable incident had the rabbits on the estate been less prolific. As a matter of fact, they increased and multiplied against the particular orders of the Squire. The parson, unhappily, was not aware of this. Most indiscreetly, he took upon himself to write a letter to Sir Geoffrey making a personal matter of it. He received what the autocrat of Nether-Applewhite called a “stinger.” Hamlin apologised, but the mischief had been done. Lastly—one hesitates to record such a trifle—the parson was a total abstainer, not a bigot, nor one to force his opinions instead of wine down a guest’s throat, but all the same, a man who passed the decanter with a certain air of superiority. Mrs. Hamlin, who had helped to keep the peace, was dead. Hamlin was left with four stout sons and a pretty daughter.