“I am grateful to you, madam, very grateful to you for these observations. They are as just as they are unusual. I sincerely hope that we—” But there was a knock at the door. “Come in.” It was Mrs. Harrop. “Your bell rang, Mrs. Fairfax, but maybe you didn’t hear it as you were engaged in conversation. Good morning, Dr. Midleton. I hope I don’t intrude?” “No, you do not.” He bowed to the ladies, and as he went out, the parlour-door being open, he moved the outer door backwards and forwards. “It would be as well, Mrs. Fairfax, to have a bell hung there which would act properly.” “I don’t know quite what Dr. Midleton means,” said Mrs. Harrop when he had gone. “The bell did ring, loud enough for most people to have heard it, and I waited ever so long.” He walked down the street with his customary firm step, and met Mr. Bingham who stopped him, half smiling and not quite at his ease. “We are sorry, Doctor, you did not give Hutchings your vote for the almshouse last Thursday; we expected you would have gone with us.” “You expected? Why?” “Well, you see, sir, Hutchings has always worked hard for our side.” “I am astonished, Mr. Bingham, that you should suppose that I will ever consent to divert the funds of a trust for party purposes.” Mr. Bingham, although he had just determined to give the Doctor a bit of his mind, felt his strength depart from him. His sentences lacked power to stand upright and fell sprawling. “No offence, Doctor, I merely wanted you to know—not so much my own views—difficulty to keep our friends together. Short—you know Tom Short—was saying to me he was afraid—” “Pay no attention to fools. Good morning.” The Doctor came in that night from a vestry meeting to which he went after dinner. The clock was striking nine, the chimes played their tune, and as the last note sounded the housekeeper and servants filed into the study for prayers. Prayers over they rose and went out, and he sat down. His habits were becoming fixed and for some years he had always read in the evening the friends of his youth. No sermon was composed then; no ecclesiastical literature was studied. Pope and Swift were favourites and, curiously enough, Lord Byron. His case is not uncommon, for it often happens that men who are forced into reserve or opposition preserve a secret, youthful, poetic passion and are even kept alive by it. On this particular evening, however, Pope, Byron, and Swift remained on his shelves. He meditated.