‘Well, yes; there will be old Mrs. Lloyd, and some more of her kind,’ Jim said. Mr. Osborne looked at his visitor for a moment, with as deep a colour as that which Jim had shown when he was being questioned--as much heat of embarrassment, and an air of offence much more marked. Mrs. Lloyd! The curate felt that the name of this old woman was a missile that any one was now at liberty to fling at him, to turn him into ridicule. Strange! when a very short time ago it appeared to him the finest feather in his cap. ‘We must do something about this, Plowden,’ he said. ‘We must lay hold on some of these fellows, and get them to come. I’ve pledged myself it’s for them. I’ve meant it all along for them. What can we do to get hold of them? You’ve been here all your life; you must have known half of them as boys. Can’t we do something? can’t we find some way of attracting them? Think for yourself. Do you want to read that “Ride,” which, you do so well, to---- Mrs. Lloyd?’ It would be impossible to express the tone of disgust with which Mr. Osborne said this name. ‘I don’t suppose she would understand much of it, poor old body. But she will like to hear the girls sing,’ said Jim, more charitable, after all, to the old lady than was the instrument of her conversion from beer. ‘About the men, I don’t know; they’re very hard to fetch. Yes, I used to know a lot of the young ones as boys; but I haven’t seen anything of them for a long time.’ ‘I tell you what, Plowden,’ said the curate, ‘we’ll go down there some evening when the fellows are about. You can talk to them, for old acquaintance’ sake, while I---- Put your shoulder to the wheel! Of course, you could do a great deal if you chose. Don’t, for the credit of the parish, let those fellows say we bring them over here to play to the old women. I can’t stand it. I may have been a fool,’ Mr. Osborne said. He said it with a force and bitterness which Jim could not understand--not to Jim, that was clear, but to some unknown adversary. ‘But stand by me,’ he said, putting his hand on Jim’s shoulder, ‘and we’ll tell another tale.’ ‘Stand by me!’ Was it the curate that spoke, and was this Jim to whom he appealed? XXXVI