“To Hay—— And you never told me!” said Jennie, aghast with astonishment. All her life, until her hasty marriage, two years before, she had lived with her parents at Medge. She considered them as fixtures to that spot. She would as soon have expected the old parish church and graveyard to be plucked up by the roots from Medge and transplanted to Haymore as to have her father and mother removed from the first to the last named place. “‘Haymore!’” she said to herself—“‘Haymore!’ Surely that was the name of the manor to which Kightly Montgomery had fallen heir. And in Yorkshire, too. It must be the same place! She and her father were going there! And—Kightly Montgomery, under his new name, and with his new bride, was also going there. The first as the lord of the manor, the second as pastor of the parish. What was to be done? They must surely meet, and then?” Jennie was dumfounded from consternation. “Why, what ails you, Jennie, my child?” inquired her father. She found her tongue at last, and said, because she did not know what else to say: “You never told me.” “I explained that I reserved the information for our meeting,” gently replied the curate. “How long have you been at Haymore?” was her next question. “About twelve weeks. Not quite three months. But don’t look so horrified, my dear. If I had changed my religion, instead of having changed my parish, you could scarcely seem more confounded,” said the curate, with a little laugh. “Oh, papa dear, what made you leave dear old Medge?” she dolefully inquired. “Necessity, Jennie. My old rector died——” “Oh! Good old Dr. Twomby! Has he gone?” exclaimed Jennie in a tone of grief. “Yes, dear—full of years and honors. It would be impious to mourn the departure of so sainted a man. His successor was a young Oxonian, who gave me warning and put in a classmate of his own as his curate.” “And what made you go so far—quite from the south to the north of England?” “Again necessity, my dear. I was out of employment, and your mother and myself were living in cheap lodgings in the village, when I received a letter from Dr. Orton—an old friend of my father, who had heard of my misfortune—inviting me to come with my wife to Haymore and take his parish and occupy his parsonage for a year, during which he was ordered by his physician to travel for his health. I gratefully accepted the offer.” “And how do you like it, papa?” “Very much, my dear. The rectory is a beautiful old house, very conveniently fitted with all modern improvements and very comfortably furnished. The house is covered with ivy and the porches with climbing plants. There is a luxuriant old garden, full of flowers and herbs and all kinds of fruits and vegetables that our climate will grow, and there is a lawn with old oak trees.” “How lovely!” impulsively exclaimed Jennie. But then her face fell.