Mr. and Mrs. Kempster were young people, and of that social temperament which will make friends under the hardest conditions. Mr. Kempster belonged to the advanced Anglican school, and ministered the offices of the Church as it were with his life in his hand, always prepared for the moment when he should come into collision with his Bishop upon some question of posture or vestments. He had introduced startling innovations into the village church, and hoped to be able to paraphrase the boast of Augustus, and to say that he found Cheriton Evangelical and left it Ritualistic. Needless to say, that while he gratified one half of his congregation he offended the other half, and that old-fashioned parishioners complained bitterly of his “gewgaws fetched from Aaron’s old wardrobe or the flamen’s vestry.” Mrs. Kempster had work enough to do in smoothing down the roughened furs of these antediluvians, which smoothing process she effected chiefly by a rigorous system of polite afternoon calls, in which no inhabitant of the parish was forgotten, and an occasional small expenditure in the shape of afternoon tea and halfpenny buns toasted and buttered by her own fair hands. She was a bright, good-tempered little woman, whom her husband generally spoke of as a “body.” The Kempsters had just accepted Mrs. Porter’s invitation to tea, and were making an admiring inspection of her garden before going into the cottage. “I don’t believe any one in Cheriton parish has such roses as you, Mrs. Porter,” said the curate’s wife, gazing admiringly at the standard Gloire de Dijon, which had grown into gigantic dimensions in the middle of the grass-plot. “I never saw such a tree; but then, you see, you give your mind to your garden as none of us can.” “I have very little else to think about, certainly,” said Mrs. Porter. “Except Algernon’s sermons. I know you appreciate them,” cried Mrs. Kempster, in her chirruping little voice. “Algernon says no one listens as attentively as you do. ‘She quite carries me away sometimes with that rapt look of hers,’ he said the other day. I am half inclined to feel jealous of you, Mrs. Porter. Oh, here is Mr. Dalbrook. How d’ye do, Mr. Dalbrook?” Mrs. Kempster shook hands with Theodore before he could approach Mrs. Porter, but having got past this vivacious lady, he introduced Cuthbert Ramsay to the mistress of the house. “My friend is a stranger in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Porter,” he said, “and he was so struck by the beauty of your cottage yesterday, that he set his heart upon being introduced to you, and I was really obliged to bring him.” “My cottage is not generally considered a show place, Mr. Dalbrook,” she answered coldly, turning her dull gray eyes full upon Theodore with a look which made him uncomfortable, “but I shall be very happy to show it to your friend—and his lordship’s friend, I conclude.”