Of Muriel I had heard but little. I had written to her twice from Beaulieu, and sent her an occasional box of flowers from one of the well-known florists in Nice, yet her letters in return were merely brief notes of thanks, and I feared that perhaps I had annoyed her by too long neglect. There seemed in her letters a tone of complaint which was unusual; therefore, I began to reflect whether it would not be as well to take a trip to town shortly, to see how Simes was keeping my rooms, and entertain her to the usual little dinner at Frascati's. In the days immediately succeeding my return to Tixover, I drove about a good deal, visiting various friends in the vicinity and making dutiful calls upon my mother's friends. It was always my custom, too, to call upon some of my father's older tenants; the people who had been kind to me when I was a mischievous lad. I found that such informal visits, where I could drink a glass of fresh milk or homemade wine, were always appreciated, and, truth to tell, I found in them some very pleasant reminiscences of my youth. One afternoon, when I came in from driving to Oundle, I found my mother taking tea with a stranger, in the pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, the mullioned windows of which looked out upon a broad sweep of well-kept lawn, bounded by the river and the meadows beyond. "Ah! Here's Clifton!" my mother exclaimed as I entered, and at that moment the man who was sitting with her taking tea turned and faced me. "Let me introduce you. Mr Yelverton, our new curate--my son Clifton." "Why, Jack!" I cried, wringing his hand, "and it's actually you--a clergyman!" And I gazed at his clerical garb in blank amazement. "Yes, it's me," he answered cheerily. "I certainly didn't think that I should ever get an appointment in your country." "But how is it?" I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we had been chums at Wadham. "I never thought you'd go in for the Church." "Nor did I," he admitted, laughing. "But I'm curate of Duddington, and this is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was your home. There are many Cleeves, you know." He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, a veritable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that a cavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, a magnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me, he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clerical collar. An officer's uniform would have suited him better. I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroad lost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man on account of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some six years before, he was living in Lincoln's Inn, and reading for the Bar. I referred to that occasion when we had met in the Strand, and he replied-- "Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop of Galway."