I The Baineses II John and Lucy III Sibyl at Silchester IV Lucy Hesitates V Roger’s Dismissal VI The Voyage Out VII Unguja—and Up-country VIII Letters To and Fro IX Mission Life X Roger Arrives XI The Happy Valley XII The Attack on the Station XIII The Return to Unguja XIV Lucy’s Second Marriage XV In England XVI Sibyl as Siren XVII Back to the Happy Valley XVIII Five Years Later XIX Trouble with Stolzenberg XX The Boer War XXI The Morals of the Happy Valley XXII Eight Years Have Passed By XXIII The End of Sibyl XXIV All Ends in the Happy Valley *THE MAN WHO DID THE RIGHT THING* *CHAPTER I* *THE BAINESES* It was in the last week of June, 1886, and there really were warm and early summers in the nineteenth century. The little chapel had been so close and hot during the morning service that in spite of the interest Lucy Josling felt in the occasion—it was the first appearance of her betrothed, John Baines, as a preacher in his native place, and the delivery of his farewell sermon before starting for Africa—she could not repress a sigh of relief as she detached herself from the perspiring throng of worshippers and stood for a few moments in the bright sunlight, inhaling the perfume of distant hayfields. "You look a trifle pale, Lucy," said Mr. Baines, senior, a stumpy red-faced man with light sandy hair and a long upper lip. "It’s precious warm. I s’pose you’n John’ll want to walk back together? Well, don’t keep dinner waiting, ’cos that always puts me out. Now then, Sarah, come along: it’s too hot to stand gossiping about. Let’s get home as quick as we can." Mrs. Baines, a gaunt, thin woman with a long parchment-coloured face and cold grey eyes, looked indignantly at her husband when he talked of gossiping, but said nothing, took his arm and walked away. Lucy put up her parasol and leant against the ugly iron railings which interposed between the dusty chapel windows and the pavement. The congregation had not all dispersed. Two or three awkward-looking young men were standing in a group in the roadway, and, while pretending to carry on a jesting conversation amongst themselves, were casting sheepish looks at Lucy, who was deemed a beauty for ten miles round. They evidently alluded to her in the witticisms they exchanged, so that she had to restrict her angle of vision in case her eyes met theirs when she wished to ignore their offensive existence. Mrs. Garrett, the grocer’s wife, who had been inquiring from Miss Simons, the little lame dressmaker—why were village dressmakers of that period, in life and in fiction, nearly always lame?—how her married sister progressed after a confinement, walked up to Lucy and said: