“You know, I suppose,” Mr. Bonamy retorted, turning slightly so as to command a view of his companion’s face, “that he is the owner of the Big Pit at Baerton from which you have just come?” “Lord Dynmore is?” “To be sure.” A flush of crimson swept over the rector’s brow and left him red and frowning. “I did not know that!” he said, his teeth set together. “So I perceive,” the lawyer replied, with a nod. “But I can reassure you. It is not at all likely to affect the earl’s plans. He is an obstinate man, though in some points a good-natured one, and he will most certainly accept your resignation if you send it in. But here you are at home.” He paused, standing awkwardly by the clergyman’s side. Then he added, “It is a comfortable house. I do not think that there is a more comfortable house in Claversham.” He retired a few steps into the churchyard as he spoke, and stood looking up at the massive old-fashioned front of the rectory, as if he had never seen the house before. The clergyman, anxious to be indoors and alone, shot an impatient glance at him, and waited for him to go. But he did not go, and presently something in his intent gaze drew Lindo, too, into the churchyard, and the two ill-assorted companions looked up together at the old gray house. The early sun shone aslant on it, burnishing the half-open windows. In the porch a robin was hopping to and fro. “It is a comfortable, roomy house,” the lawyer repeated. “It is,” the rector answered slowly, as if the words were wrung from him. And he, too, stood looking up at it as if he were fascinated. “A man might grow old in it,” murmured Mr. Bonamy. There was a slight, but very unusual, flush on his parchment-colored face, and his eyes, when he turned with an abrupt movement to his companion, did not rise above the latter’s waistcoat. “Comfortably too, I should say,” he added querulously, rattling the money in his pockets. “I think if I were you I would reconsider my determination. I think I would, do you know? As it is, what you have told me will not go any farther. You did one foolish thing last night. I would not do another to-day, if I were you, Mr. Lindo.” And he turned abruptly away—his head down, his coat-tails swinging, and both his hands thrust deep into his trouser-pockets—such a shrewd, angular, ungainly figure as only a small country town can show. He left the rector standing before his rectory in a state of profound surprise and bewilderment. The young man felt something very like a lump in his throat as he turned to go in. He discerned that the lawyer had meant to do a kind, nay, a generous action; and yet if there was a man in the world whom he had judged incapable of such magnanimity it was Mr. Bonamy! He went in not only touched, but ashamed. Here, if he had not already persuaded himself that the world was less ill-conditioned than he had lately thought it, was another and a surprising lesson!