The Reverend Mr. Chizzy was only twenty–four, and he might have passed for nineteen; but he was so high a churchman that the mould of several centuries was on him. He was a priest without a cure; but, as some of his irreverent friends expressed it, he was “in training” for the Rectorship of St. Bede’s the Less, a small church in the neighborhood, endowed by Mr. Tullingworth–Gordon and disapproved of by his Bishop, who had not yet appointed a clergyman. The Bishop had been heard to say that he had not yet made up his mind whether St. Bede’s the Less was a church or some new kind of theatre. Nevertheless, Mr. Chizzy was on hand, living under the wing of the Tullingworth–Gordons, and trying to make the good Church–of–England people of the parish believe that they needed him and his candles and his choir–boys. Behind Mr. Chizzy came two limp little girls, hangers–on of the Tullingworth–Gordon household by grace of Mrs. Tullingworth–Gordon’s charity. In New England they would have been called “chore–girls.” The Tullingworth–Gordons called them “scullery maids.” Bilson half rose on his elbow in astonishment, alarm and indignation. “Sophronia ’Uckins,” he demanded, “what do this ’ere mean? I ain’t a–dyin’, and I ain’t got no need of a clergyman, thank ’eaven. And no more this ain’t a scullery, Mrs. ’Uckins.” “This,” said Sophronia, pointing at the clergyman as though he were a wax–figure in a show, “this is to wed you and me, Samuel Bilson, and _them_” (she indicated the scullery maids,) “them witnesses it.” [Illustration] “Witnesses _wot_?” Mr. Bilson inquired, in a yell. “Witnesses our marriage, Samuel Bilson. Nuss you I can not, both bein’ single, and nussed you must and shall be. Now set up and be marri’d quiet.” Mr. Bilson’s physical condition forbade him to leap from the bed; but his voice leaped to the rafters above him. “Marri’d!” he shouted: “I’ll die fust!” “Die you will,” said Sophronia, calmly but sternly, “if married you ain’t, and that soon.” “Sophronia!” Bilson’s voice was hollow and deeply reproachful; “you ’ave throwed me over.” “I ’ave,” she assented. “And ’ere I am.” “And there you are.” “Sophronia, you ’ave not treated me right.” “I ’ave not, Samuel Bilson,” Miss Huckins cheerfully assented; “I might ’ave known as you was not fit to take care of yourself. But I mean to do my dooty now, so will you ’ave the kindness to button your clo’es at the neck, and sit up?” Mr. Bilson mechanically fastened the neck–band of his night–shirt and raised himself to the sitting posture. “Mrs. Huckins,” Mr. Chizzy interrupted, in an uncertain way; “I didn’t understand—you did not tell me—there does not appear to have been the usual preliminary arrangement for this most sacred and solemn ceremony.” Sophronia turned on him with scorn in her voice and bearing. “Do I understand, sir, as you find yourself in a ’urry?” “I am not in a hurry—oh, no. But—dear me, you know, I can’t perform the ceremony under these circumstances.”