The curate's face was full of the lines of perplexity, and rapidly doubling up the letter, he swallowed half a cup of tea at a gulp, much hotter than was good for him, and quite sufficiently so to cause pain. "Phew! More milk, Mary, dear." A long white hand raised the milk-jug quickly, and the earnest grey eyes which belonged sought the curate's as he held out his cup. "Any bad news, Hartley, dear?" "Bad news? No, no, dear, only one of May's old worries. The old boy's got gout again." "Has he, dear?" "Well, he doesn't say so, but it breathes in that style. He feels it his duty to stir me up now and then, and he generally does it with a sharp stick." He glanced as he spoke at Leo, who sipped her tea and read a novel, without apparently heeding what was going on. "It's a great shame, Hartley, working so hard in the parish as you do," said Mary quietly; "while he--" "Oh, silence! thou reviler of those in high clerical places," cried the curate merrily, as he inserted his knife in the envelope fold of another missive, and slit it open. "Here's a letter from North." The face of Mary Salis was perfectly composed, but there was a flash from her eyes and an eager look of inquiry as the letter was opened. "Ha! Busy as a bee! Conferences; lectures. Going to be present at a great operation. Nasty wretch! How he does glory in great operations!" "It is his love of his profession," said Mary quietly. "Too enthusiastic," said the curate. "Why doesn't he, a man with his income, make himself happy by doing what good he can to his patients, and have his game of chess here when his work is done?" "It is his desire to do good to his patients which makes him so earnest about scientific matters, dear," said Mary, smiling at her brother. "Very kind of you to do battle for him, my child; but Horace North works far too hard, and he'll end by going mad." "Or becoming one of the ornaments of his profession," said Mary, smiling. "Ornaments be hanged! One of the useful corners, if you like." "Does he say when he is coming home?" said Mary quietly. "Yes; day after to-morrow. Good news for Mrs Berens." The curate burst into a hearty laugh, and a very, very faint flush of colour came into Mary's cheek. "Saw her yesterday, and with a face as innocent of guile as could be she told me that she was very poorly, and should not feel safe to live long in a village where there was no medical man. Glad old Horace is coming back, though. What have we here? Oh, I see. Letter about the horse-- no, it's a mare." Leo put down her book and listened attentively now. "Hah! Yes! North was right. The fellow will take ten pounds less for her, after all." "Ah!" There was a faint sigh, expressive of gratification, and the curate looked up. "Are you satisfied, Leo?" he said gravely. "Yes." "It goes against the grain," he said, laying his hand involuntarily upon the letter he had that morning received from the rector.