Before speaking even to his mother, Alick rushed off with this letter to Mr. Gryce. The old leaven of superstition which works more or less in all of us--even those few who think proof a desirable basis for belief, and who require an examination conducted on scientific principles before they accept supernaturalism as "only another law coming in to modify those already known"--that superstition which belongs to most men, and to Alick with the rest, made this letter a matter of tremendous excitement to him. He saw in it the hand of God and the finger of Fate. It was impossible that Mr. Gryce, living at North Aston, should know anything of a small country incumbency in the North. It was all that study made of his poor parched and knuckly hand. And what had been seen there was manifestly the thing ruled for him by Providence and destiny. "How could you possibly tell?" he cried, looking at his own hand as if he could read it as his clever friend had done. "That is my secret," said Emmanuel, smiling at the credulity on which he traded. Then, thinking a flutter outward of the corners of his cards the best policy in the circumstances about them at the moment, he added, "And when you get there you will understand more than you do now. For you will go?" "Surely," said Alick: "it would be unfaithful in me to refuse." "But see if you cannot make arrangements to take the place on trial for a few months. I know very little of your ecclesiastical law, but grant even that it is as devoid of common sense as I should suppose--seeing who are the men who make, administer and obey it--still, I should think that a temporary incumbency might be arranged." "I should think so, and I will take your advice," said Alick, over whom Emmanuel Gryce was fast establishing the power which belongs to the stronger over the weaker, to the more astute over the more dense. "You will find an adopted daughter of mine in the neighborhood," then said Mr. Gryce with the most amiable indifference. "She lives with my sister at our old home on the fell-side: Windy Brow the place is called. You must tell me how she looks and what you think of her altogether when you write to me, as I suppose you will do, or when you come home, if you elect not to take the cure even on trial." "I am not much in the way of criticising young ladies," said Alick sadly. "She is rather a remarkable girl, all things considered," returned Mr. Gryce quietly. "Her name is Leonora Darley. You will remember--Leonora Darley. Ask for her when you go up to Windy Brow: Leonora Darley," for the third time. "All right: Miss Leonora Darley," repeated Alick, suspecting nothing; and again Mr. Gryce smiled as he dug his fingers into the earth of a chrysalis-box. How pleasant it was to pull the strings and see his puppets dance!