What was said, and how it was said, can well be imagined. When a man who for some cause has held his head a little above his neighbors stumbles and falls, we know what is likely to be said of him. And the young rector knew, and in his heart and in his study suffered horribly. All the afternoon of the day after the bazaar he walked the town with a smile on his face, ostensibly visiting in his district, really vindicating his pride and courage. He carried his head as high as ever, and the skirts of his long black coat fluttered as bravely as before. Dr. Gregg, who saw him from the reading-room window, gave it as his opinion that he did not know what shame meant. But at heart the young man was unutterably miserable. He knew that inquisitive eyes were upon his every gesture; that he was watched, jeered at, worst of all—pitied. He guessed, as the day wore on, drawing the inference from the curate’s avoidance of him, that even Clode had deserted him; and this, perhaps, almost as much as the resentment he harbored against Lord Dynmore, hardened him in his resolve not to resign or abate one tittle of his rights. He fancied he stood alone. But, of course, there were some who sympathized with him, and some who held their tongues and declined to commit themselves to any opinion. Among the latter Mr. Bonamy was conspicuous—to the intense disgust of Dr. Gregg, whose first expression, indeed, on hearing the news had been, “What nuts for Bonamy!” As a fact, however, the snappish little doctor had never found his friend so morose and unpleasant as when he tried to sound him on this subject. He espied him on the other side of the street, and rushed across, stuttering almost before he reached him, “Well? He will have to resign, won’t he?” “Who?” said Mr. Bonamy, standing still, and fixing his cold gray eyes on the excited little man. “Who will have to resign?” “Why, the rector, to be sure!” rejoined Gregg, feeling the check unpleasantly. “Will he?” “Well, I should say so,” urged the doctor, now quite taken aback, and gazing at the other with eyes of surprise. “But I suppose you know best, Bonamy.” “Then I am going to keep my knowledge to myself!” snarled the lawyer; and, rattling a handful of silver in his pocket, he stalked away, his hat on the back of his head, and his lank figure more ungainly than usual. He was in the worst of tempers; angry with Lord Dynmore and dissatisfied with himself—given to calling himself, half a dozen times in an hour, a quixotic fool for having thrown away the earl’s business for the sake of a scruple that was little more than a whim. It is all very well to have a queer rugged code of honor of one’s own, and to observe it; but when the observance sends away business—such business as brings with it the social considerations which men prize most highly when they most affect to despise it—why then a man is apt to take out his self-denial in ill-temper. Mr. Bonamy did so.