“You have been making a pastoral visit?” Ada remarked, as they walked on together. “Yes. I dare say I come here rather oftener than I should in the natural course of things, owing to my associations with the place. My good friend Kingcote used to live here. I believe you met him once or twice at Knightswell?” “Oh yes, and in London, at a friend’s house.” “It was a loss to me when he went away, a serious loss. I am doing my utmost to persuade him to come over and spend a week with me, but he won’t promise. We had a surprising similarity of tastes. He enjoyed the old dramatists, who, I think, you know are my favourite study.” “Does he live in London?” “No. In Norwich. It is his native town.” Mr. Vissian, ever discreet, made no mention of his friend’s pursuits. “Really, Miss Warren,” he continued, “you must allow me to tell you what pleasure you have been giving me of late. That story of yours in _Roper s Miscellany_ is one of _the_ most delightful things I have read for a long time. I don’t read modern fiction as a rule, but it is my hope that I may not miss anything you publish henceforth. I should not have seen this, I fear, but for my friend Kingcote. He sent me a copy of the magazine, and with it words of such strong commendation that I fell to at the feast forthwith.” There was a glow of pleasure on the girl’s face; she said nothing, and looked away over the sunny meadows. “There is an energy in your style,” pursued the rector, “which I relish exceedingly. Clearly you have drunk of the pure wells of English. Doubtless you read your Chaucer devoutly? A line of him has been ringing in my head for the last two days; no doubt you remember it, in the ‘Legende of Goode Women’-- ‘And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe.’ One of the sweetest lines in all English poetry.” He repeated it enthusiastically several times. “Ah, Kingcote and I used to hunt up lines like that and revel over them! I have no one now with whom to talk in that way. He had a fine taste, a wonderful palate for pure literary flavour. His ear was finer than my own, much finer. He showed me metrical effects in Marlowe which I am ashamed to say I had utterly missed. There was one sonnet of old Drummond’s--Drummond of Hawthornden--that we relished together. Of course you know it well; the one beginning-- ‘Lamp of heaven’s crystal hall that brings the hours.’ In it comes that phrase, ‘Apelles of the flowers.’ A grievous loss to me, an irreparable loss! I am engaged at present on an edition of _Twelfth Night_, in which, by-the-bye”--his eye twinkled--“I explain ‘the lady of the Strachy,’ I constantly miss Kingcote’s comments.” Ada listened with thoughtful countenance. “He ought to do something himself,” Mr. Vissian added, “but I fear his health is very bad. Last autumn he had a severe illness----” “Last autumn?” She interrupted involuntarily, and at once dismissed the curiosity which had risen to her face.