“You are not so dull but that with a little consideration you will understand me.” So Rosalie went to bed much sat on by the frog, but maybe profiting, as most of us do, from a little compression and criticism. Next day everything was sloppy, wet, and dismal. Rain began to fall in the afternoon, and going out, no matter of pleasure on such a day, was not indulged in. Tea had just been brought in, and Rosalie and Miss Crokerly were preparing to enjoy it alone, when visitors were announced. They were Mr. Barringcourt and the Golden Priest Alphonso. “I came to return the umbrella, Miss Crokerly, and met the Golden Priest on my way.” “Then you will have tea,” said she. “On a wet day you are doubly welcome. No one else has ventured out.” “We are fortunate. Miss Paleaf, allow me to introduce my friend, Golden Priest Alphonso, to you.” And Rosalie, having a severe and cold critic perched upon her shoulder, rose very gracefully and bowed. “It must have been very important business that brought you out on such a day,” said she to him, as they sat down, with charming sympathy. “Well, I was out begging, and a beggar cannot choose his weather. I was going in search of Mr. Barringcourt for a subscription for a new decorative curtain for the temple.” “In place of the old red one?” “Exactly. It was old and shabby, despite its richness, and we think it must be rotten. There is every indication that it may give way again, and so we are making all speed with the new one.” “Then you are not superstitious enough to think it gave way before from anything but natural causes?” He looked at her sharply and narrowly. “Oh, no,” he answered. “One can find a natural cause for everything. Therein lies the greater miracle.” “But how?” said Rosalie, subduing her tongue in deferential attention to the pillar of the Church. He smiled, as became one of exalted intellect. “Well, there is nothing like order—cause and effect—to work a lasting miracle. A startling thing has a short life. The rottenness of the curtain was the symbol of something still more rotten. Nothing takes place in a day.” Rosalie’s eyes opened innocently, though they were very far from innocent. There is no doubt the frog must have been to blame for it. “What is still more rotten? But perhaps my questions bore you. I am so inquisitive.” Again he smiled. “You could never be that. But what is still more rotten is the system that lets old men continue in office after they have proved themselves unfit for it.” Rosalie’s eyes betrayed a charming depth of horror at this cold-blooded statement. “But, sir,” said she, “who is to be the judge of their incapacity? And, again, it seems so cruel, and—and—doesn’t it make a terrible lot of enemies for you, saying things like that?” The Golden Priest laughed. The last remark evidently was to some point.