It came, the bell rang, the porter cried, “Claversham! Claversham!” and the curate walked down it, past the carriage-windows, looking for the man he had come to meet. Half-a-dozen people stepped out, and for a moment there was a mimic tumult on the little platform; but nowhere amid it all could Clode see any one like the new rector. “He has missed another train!” he muttered to himself in contemptuous wonder; and he was already casting a last look round him before turning on his heel, when a tall, fair young man, in a clerical overcoat, who had been one of the first to alight, stepped up to him. “Am I speaking to Mr. Clode?” said the stranger pleasantly. And he lifted his hat. “Certainly,” the curate answered. “I am Mr. Clode. But I fear I have not the——” “No, I know,” replied the other, smiling, and at the same time holding out his hand. “Though, indeed, I hoped that you might have been here on purpose to meet me. My name is Lindo.” The curate uttered an exclamation of surprise; and, hastily returning the proffered grip, fixed his black eyes curiously on his new friend. “Mr. Lindo did not mention that you were with him,” he answered in a tone of some embarrassment. “But, there, let me see to your luggage. Is it all here?” “Yes, I think so,” Lindo answered, tapping one article after another with his umbrella, and giving the stationmaster a pleasant “Good-day!” “Is there an omnibus or anything?” “Yes,” Clode said; “it will be all right. They know where to take it. You will walk up with me, perhaps. It is about a quarter of a mile to the rectory.” The new comer assented gladly, and the two passed out of the station together. Lindo let his eye travel up the wide steep street before him, until it rested on the noble tower which crowned the little hill and looked down now, as it had looked down for five centuries, on the red roofs clustering about it. His tower! His church! Even his companion did not remark, so slight was the action, that, as he passed out of the station and looked up, he lifted his hat for a second. “And where is your father?” Clode asked. “Was he delayed by business? Or perhaps,” he added, dubiously scanning him, “you are Mr. Lindo’s brother?” “I _am_ Mr. Lindo!” said our friend, turning in astonishment and looking at his companion. “The rector?” “Yes.” It was the curate’s turn to stare now, and he did so—his face flushing darkly and his eyes wide opened for once. He even seemed for a moment to be stricken dumb with surprise and emotion. “Indeed!” he said at last, in a half stifled voice which he vainly strove to control. “Indeed! I beg your pardon. I had thought—I don’t know why—I mean that I had expected to see an older man.” “I am sorry you are disappointed,” the rector replied, smiling ruefully. “I am beginning to think I am rather young, for you are not the first to-day who has made that mistake.”