services; naturally there was no further discussion on religious topics between the two. As October drew on, and evenings began to be dark and cold, the comfort of Mr. Vissian’s study and of his wife’s sitting-room assuredly lost nothing in the eyes of the hermit of Wood End, yet his visits became less frequent. He presented himself, however, about nine o’clock one night, and was received by Mrs. Vissian with the usual friendliness. The rector was expected home every moment. It had been raining all day, and the temperature justified the first fire, which crackled merrily and made the bright little room look cheerier than ever. The table was laid for supper (the Vissians dined at one o’clock) and a pleasant odour as of toasted cheese took advantage of the door being ajar to creep insidiously about the room. Mrs. Vissian sat with her feet on a stool, mending a pair of Percy’s stockings. “You look tired,” she said, as Kingcote sat in silence and watched her out of half-closed eyes. “I am, a little. I have been walking.” “But in this dreadful rain?” “Has it rained? I don’t think I noticed it.” Mrs. Vissian regarded him for an instant with surprise, then laughed a little, and bent over her work. Her left hand and arm were thrust into the stocking, and she held her head sideways, observing the growth of her darning with a kind of artistic earnestness and pleasure. A small black cat, which had just come in licking its mouth, put its fore feet on to the stool and looked up into its mistress’s face. The fire crackled, and a sound of clattered plates came from the kitchen. Then was heard another sound, that of the rector’s latch-key at the front door. Mrs. Vissian quickly put down her work, and, with a bright look, went from the room. Kingcote gripped the arm of his chair and uttered a low moan. “Ha, well met!” exclaimed the rector, as, after divesting himself of a wet overcoat, he entered, flicking his black trousers with his handkerchief and dubiously regarding his boots. His cheeks, as always, were aglow with health and spirits; on his whiskers gleamed drops of rain. He stood with his back to the fire, and passed his finger round between collar and neck, a habit of his which always seemed to give him ease. “I have a message for you----” The servant entered with a tray of savoury viands. The rector broke off in his speech to regard the goods which the gods were providing; he did so with a critical, yet a satisfied, eye. “A message for _me?_” Kingcote asked indifferently. “Ha, yes!” Mr. Vissian had been led off into a different train of thought, it seemed. “Mrs. Clarendon wants you to go to see her.” “Indeed!” “Where did you meet her, dear?” Mrs. Vissian inquired, as she bundled away her work in preparation for the meal.