“If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get your dismissal from me; you won’t require to dismiss yourself,” said Mr. Galloway. “Sit down, sir, and go on with your work.” “And that’s all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of oppression!” muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place at the desk. “This is a precious world to live in!” CHAPTER XXVII. -- A PIECE OF PREFERMENT. Before the nine days’ wonder, which, you know, is said to be the accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature--the preferment of the Reverend William Yorke. A different preferment from what had been anticipated for him; otherwise the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean and Chapter to provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open part of the town was a cluster of buildings, called Hazeldon’s Charity, so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon--a large, paved inclosure, fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses, and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant, the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet, Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick’s motive for bestowing it upon him was this--that, of all the clergy in the neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick. It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do sometimes come unexpectedly in this world. In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings’ garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul--so would it have spoken to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen there.