So next morning, when Dr Quack called upon Timothy, he found no rival, nor stew, nor upset kitchen--only the little sufferer quite alone; and little Tim was worse that morning, for he had such a nasty pain when he coughed, and he looked thinner and more wasted than ever; and Marigold, tired of cutting and sewing, went out for a ramble all alone amongst the Temple grounds, whilst Alice cooked the dinner. And Marigold, being one of those people who can’t keep away from things, wended her way towards the creeper-covered arch, the splendid ruins of a portion long disused. The sun shone in all its glory, yet without any of that stifling and oppressive heat that so often characterises our climate here on earth, and the quaint broken arches cast long shadows on the sunlit path. And there was no Alice there, the Board-School product of materialism--no one but Marigold. And as she came along the pathway, she saw St Armand sitting there on the gnarled tree roots, a sketch-block on his knee; and there beside him, the great High Priest upon a camp-stool. For men who sit on thrones rarely get the pleasure of sitting on the ground, and if you sit on a throne long enough, after a while you don’t appreciate the pleasure of it--the ground, of course. But Marigold did not draw back. Why should she? She had just come away from a looking-glass, and seen a picture through it that she kissed to annoy Alice; and so she called out gaily to the artist, not the priest: “I’ve come on purpose, just so that I may spoil your picture.” “On the contrary, you’ve just brought the finishing-touches.” “You didn’t say that the last time I came here.” “I believe you wore clogs and a jacket, and worse still, you brought a companion who was thick-set and uneducated.” “No; she has been very well educated at one of the best Board-Schools.” “Sure sign she knows nothing. They fiddle too much at the Board-Schools--make too much fuss over teaching, and neglect the learning.” Marigold was not interested in this, so she turned to the High Priest, and smiled a little more sweetly, and certainly a little more shyly, than at St Armand. “You will find it very cool and shady under this big tree,” said she; and the octogenarian bent his head and went on with his sketching, for of all things he was a humorist, and never failed to find human beings amusing in their love affairs. “Yes, we are taking a morning’s holiday--the first with me for, I might say, many a year”; and he rose from the camp-stool and stood looking down at her, with an interest Marigold noticed was different from any he had ever taken in her before--different even from last night. “How you must be enjoying it then,” said she. “But I thought you would have gone a long way off from the Temple for a holiday; people generally do go as far off from their work as they can.” “A priest’s work is slightly different from that of any other calling.”