"It may not be, my dear friend—the shepherd may not flee and leave his flock in danger." "Yet," urged his visitor, "it is written, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another'—is that not so?" "Yes, that is the Divine counsel," answered the Vicar, "and the hour may come when I may feel the monition to be addressed to me; but for the present I abide in Chiddingly!" "God's will be done," said the man solemnly—and so they parted. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER III THE PURSUIVANT The apparitor had taken his departure, and Chiddingly had resumed its normal condition of rural happiness and peace. The fields were ripening unto harvest, the rustics went forth to their daily toil whistling merrily beside their horses, and at eventide the maidens went to see to the kine with their bright milk-cans in their hands. The rooks filled the air with their raucous voices, as they fluttered about the great rookery which begirt Chiddingly Place. On the Sunday following the departure of the Queen's officer, all the people of Chiddingly, save a few who were bedridden, flocked into the parish church as if to testify by their presence the love that they bore to their pastor. Chiddingly was a musical village, and here, at least, the Canticles, which were "to be said or sung," were always sung to the accompaniment of a flageolet, which the parish clerk played vigorously. And on this especial Sunday the "Te Deum" was sung so heartily that the Vicar marvelled, while Mistress Susan's bright eyes glowed with pride and then glistened with the unbidden tear which strong emotion called forth. The service over, the Squire and his fair daughter walked through the lines of the villagers, who, according to their custom, awaited their exit to make their salutations to them, cap in hand. There was nothing servile in this—it was but the public exhibition of the love and fidelity in which the family of the Jefferays was held by the Chiddingly people. At the entrance porch of the hall Susan's quick eye noted a stable lad standing beside a pony from which he had dismounted. What was it that so suddenly brought a flush into Susan's cheeks as she marked that the lad wore the livery of the De Fynes of Herstmonceux—a glow which deepened as the boy doffed his cap and offered her a letter? "You come from Lewes?" said Susan inquiringly. "Yes, my lady," replied the lad. "Wait awhile, and I will let you know if there is any reply; go to the kitchen after you have stabled your pony—the maids will get you some dinner," said Susan. The lad bowed low and took his departure, glad to follow out Susan's instructions. Susan turned to her father, who had looked on smilingly. "Pardon me, dear father," she said, "I will be with you anon." William Jefferay nodded assent. Susan hastened to her own room and quickly opened her letter.