The gas in the big, barely-furnished room, which we have visited more than once, had just been lit, but the blinds still remained up; and in this mingling of lights the place looked less home-like and more uncomfortable than usual. There were three people in the room when the archdeacon entered. Two sat reading by the fire, their backs to the door. The third—the future rector—was standing up near one of the windows, taking advantage of the last rays of daylight to read the _Times_, which he held open before him. The archdeacon cast a casual glance at the others, and then stepped across to him and touched him on the shoulder. Clode turned with a start. He had not heard the approaching footstep. One glance at the newcomer’s face, however, set his blood in a glow. It told him, or almost told him, all; and instinctively he dropped his eyes, that the other might not read in them his triumph and exultation. The archdeacon’s first words confirmed him in his hopes. “I have some good news for you, Mr. Clode,” he said, smiling benevolently. He had of late distrusted the curate, as we have seen; but he was a man of kindly nature, and such a man cannot convey good tidings without entering into the recipient’s feelings. “I saw Lord Dynmore yesterday,” he continued. “Indeed,” said the curate a little thickly. His face had grown hot, but the increasing darkness concealed this. “Yes,” the archdeacon resumed, in a confidential tone which was yet pretty audible through the room. “You have heard, no doubt, that Mr. Lindo has resigned the living?” The curate nodded. At that moment he dared not speak. A dreadful thought was in his mind. What if the archdeacon’s good news was news that the earl declined to receive the resignation? Some people might call that good news! The mere thought struck him dumb. The archdeacon’s next words resolved his doubts. “Frankly,” the elder man said in a genial tone, “I am sorry—sorry that circumstances have forced him to take so extreme a step. But having said that, Mr. Clode, I have done for the present with regret, and may come to pleasanter matter. I have to congratulate you. I am happy to say that Lord Dynmore, whom I saw yesterday, has authorized me to offer the living to you.” The newspaper rustled in the curate’s grasp, and for a moment he did not answer. Then he said huskily, “To me?” “Yes,” the archdeacon answered expansively—it was certainly a pleasant task he had in hand, and he could not help beaming over it. “To you, Mr. Clode. On one condition only,” he continued, “which is usual enough in all such cases, and I venture to think is particularly natural in this case. I mean that you have your late rector’s good word.” “Mr. Lindo’s good word?” the curate stammered. “Of course,” the unconscious archdeacon answered. The curate’s jaw dropped; but by an effort he forced a ghastly smile. “To be sure,” he said. “There will be no difficulty about that, I think.”