“But I only want him to see Mr. Lindo. You are unkind, Kate! You know he never gets a chance of seeing a stranger.” “You want to know if he likes me?” the rector said, laughing. “That is it,” she answered, nodding. But Kate, though she laughed, was inexorable. She bundled the big dog out. “Do you know, she has two more like that, Mr. Lindo?” she said, apologetically. “Snip and Snap,” said Daintry. “But they are not like that. They are smaller. Jack gave me Snorum, and Snip and Snap are Snorum’s sons.” “It is quite a genealogy,” the rector said, smiling. “Yes, and Jack was the Genesis. Genesis means beginning, you know,” Daintry explained. “Daintry, you must go down-stairs if you talk nonsense,” Kate said imperatively. She was looking, the young man thought, prettier than ever in a gray and blue plaid frock and the neatest of collars and cuffs. As for Daintry, she shrugged her shoulders under the rebuke, and lolled in one of the stiff-backed chairs, her attitude much like that of a vine clinging to a telegraph-post. Her wilfulness had one happy effect, however. The rector in his amusement forgot the chill formality of the room and the dull respectability of the house’s exterior. For half an hour he talked on without a thought of the gentleman whom he had come to see. Some inkling of the circumstances of the case which had entered his head before the sisters’ appearance faded again, and in gazing on the pure animated faces of the two girls he quickly lost sight of the evidences of lack of taste which appeared in their surroundings. If Kate, on her side, forgot for a moment certain chilling realities and surrendered herself to the pleasure of the moment, it must be remembered that hitherto—in Claversham, at least—her experience of men had been confined to Dr. Gregg and his fellows, and also that none of us, even the wisest and proudest, are always on guard. Mr. Bonamy not appearing, Reginald left at last, perfectly assured that the half-hour he had just spent was the pleasantest he had spent in Claversham. He went out of the house in a gentle glow of enthusiasm. The picture of Kate Bonamy, trim and neat, with her hair in a bright knot, and laughter softening her eyes, remained with him, and he walked half-way down the street lost in a delightful reverie. He was aroused by the approach of a tall, elderly man who had just turned the corner before him, and was now advancing along the pavement with long, rapid strides. The stranger, who seemed about sixty, wore a wide-skirted black coat, and had a tall silk hat, from under which the gray hairs straggled thinly, set far back on his head. His figure was spare, his face sallow, his features prominent. His mouth was peevish, his eyes sharp and saturnine. As he walked he kept one hand in his trousers’-pocket, the other swung by his side. The rector looked at him a moment in doubt, and then stopped him. “Mr. Bonamy, I am sure?” he said, holding out his hand.