“Papa went by the Mills, Miss Martin, for shortness, for he was on foot.” “Why did he not ride?” “He has sold Bluebell,--the pony, I mean, Miss Martin.” Mary's face became crimson with a blush that seemed to burn through the forehead into her very brain, and she could only mutter,-- “I 'm sorry I did n't know; my carriage and pony were in the stable. If I had but heard of this--” and was silent. They had now reached the entrance to the little churchyard, where the few members of the small flock lingered, awaiting the arrival of the clergyman. Amidst many a respectful salutation and gaze of affectionate interest, Mary walked to the end of the aisle, where, shrouded in heavy curtains, soft-cushioned and high-panelled, stood the castle pew. It must be, indeed, hard for the rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The very appliances of his piety are the offshoots of his voluptuous habits; and that his heart should feel humble, his hassock must be of down! It was not often that the words of the pastor were heard within that solemn, small enclosure with the same reverent devotion. Mary was now alone there; her mind no longer distracted by the petty incidents of their coming, her proud station seemed to have vanished, and she felt herself but as one of an humble flock, supplicating and in sorrow! Dr. Leslie had heard of the terrible visitation which menaced them, and made it the subject of his sermon. The fact of his own great age and fast declining strength gave a deeper meaning to all he said, and imparted to the faltering words of his benediction the solemnity of a farewell. “You are a little fatigued to-day, doctor,” said Mary, as he came out of church. “Will you allow me to offer you my arm?” “Willingly, my dear Miss Mary. But this is not our road.” “Why so?--this is the path to the vicarage.” “They 've made some change, my dear; they 've altered the approach.” “And you came round by the avenue,--a distance of two miles?” cried she, deep crimson with shame. “And kept you all waiting; but not very long, I trust,” said he, smiling benevolently. “But come, talk to me of yourself, and when I am to come and see you.” “Oh, my dear Dr. Leslie, you must not think that I--that my uncle--” She stopped, and he pressed her hand gently, and said,-- “Do not speak of it; do not give importance to things which are trifles, if we have but good temper to leave them so. Is to-morrow a free day with you; or when shall I hope to find you at leisure?” “My dear doctor, every day will be so in future; all my functions have ceased here. I am to be nothing in future.”