“I think it is all right,” he said, in a slightly lower tone. “I think I may answer for it, Laura, that we shall not have much longer to wait.” She gazed at him, seeming for the moment startled and taken by surprise. “Have you heard of a living, then?” she murmured, her eyes wide, her breath coming and going. He nodded. “Where?” she asked, in the same low tone. “You do not mean—here!” He nodded again. “At Claversham!” she exclaimed. “Then will he have to go, really?” “I think he will,” Clode replied, a glow of triumph warming his dark face and kindling his eyes. “When Lord Dynmore left here yesterday he drove straight to Mr. Bonamy’s. You hardly believe it, do you? Well, it is true, for I had it from a sure source. And, that being so, I do not think Lindo will have much chance against such an alliance. It is not as if he had many friends here, or had got on well with the people.” “The poor people like him,” she urged. “Yes,” Clode answered sharply. “He has spent money among them. It was not his own, you see.” It was a brutal thing to say, and she cast a glance of gentle reproof at him. She did not remonstrate, however, but, slightly changing the subject, asked, “But even if Mr. Lindo goes, are you sure of the living?” “I think so,” he answered, smiling confidently down at her. She looked puzzled. “How do you know?” she asked. “Did Lord Dynmore promise it to you?” “No; I wish he had,” he answered. “All the same, I think I am fairly sure of it without the promise.” And then he related to her what the archdeacon had told him as to Lord Dynmore’s intention of presenting the curates in future. “Now do you see, Laura?” he asked. “Yes, I see,” she answered, looking down and absently poking a hole in the gravel with the point of her umbrella. “And you are content?” “Yes,” she answered, looking up brightly from a little dream of the rectory as it should be, when feminine taste had transformed it with the aid of Persian rugs and old china and the hundred knickknacks which are half a woman’s life—“Yes, I am content, Mr. Clode.” “Say ‘Stephen.’” “I am quite content, Stephen,” she answered obediently, a bright blush for a moment mingling with her smile. He was about to make some warm rejoinder, when the sound of footsteps approaching from the house diverted his attention, and he looked up. The new-comer was Mrs. Hammond, also on her way into the town. She waved her hand to him. “Good morning,” she cried in her cheery voice—“you are just the person I wanted to see, Mr. Clode. This is good luck. Now, how is he?” “Who? Mrs. Hammond,” said the curate, quite taken by surprise.