“Interesting! By the Turk! It is epochmaking, as the Germans say. I have not a doubt remaining.” Mrs. Vissian listened to the conversation with just a little evident uneasiness. It was troublesome to be more orthodox than the rector, but she could not forget that it was Sunday. Affectionate little women are quite capable of these weaknesses. When Mr. Vissian’s excitement was somewhat allayed, Kingcote began in a matter-of-fact way, and told them of his approaching departure, explaining the circumstances which occasioned it. His hearers were genuinely distressed. “This is evil following upon good with a vengeance,” said the rector. His wife looked sorrowfully at him, and half wondered in her foolish little mind whether this might be a reproval of his Sabbath-breaking--a mild one, suited to a first backsliding. “I owe you more than I can thank you for,” said Kingcote, looking from husband to wife. “I shall think of the rectory as if it had been my home.” “I hope,” said Mrs. Vissian, touched, “that you will make it a home as often as you possibly can. We shall always be very, very glad to see you here.” “My dear Kingcote,” murmured the rector, in an uncertain voice, “this--this upsets me. It is so wholly unexpected. And we were to have gone through every play with scrutiny of metrical development. Your ear is so much more to be depended upon than mine in such matters. Dear me, dear me! This is excessively disturbing!” “But, by-the-bye,” he added, when he could better trust his vocal organs, “I shall now have some one whom I can rely upon in immediate vicinity of the book-stalls. If you should ever come across anything in my line--you know the kind of thing I want----” “Mr. Kingcote,” said his wife, raising her finger, “I’m sure you won’t put discord between me and my husband. You know that I dread the mention of book-stalls.” There was of course to be a later leavetaking; in view of his domestic disturbances, Kingcote consented to breakfast and dine at the rectory on Tuesday. His sticks of furniture he would sell to a dealer in Winstoke on the morrow, and his packing would only be an affair of a couple of hours, books and all. Percy ardently desired to help in this process, and was permitted to come. Kingcote woke in the middle of the night, with so distinct a voice in his ears that he sat and gazed nervously about him in the darkness. It was as though Isabel had spoken in his very presence, and after he had gained full consciousness; she said, “It is fate, dear,” and uttered the words with pain. Our dreams play these tricks with us. He rose and went to the window; there was a setting moon, and the old oak-trunk before the cottage threw a long, black shadow. The night-wind made its wonted sobbing sound. The sky was very dark in the direction of Knightswell. He had his letter on Tuesday morning.