“Well, but—who is to do the duty at the church?” Clode ejaculated. His dismay at the moment was genuine, for he did not at once see how much this was to his advantage. “There is only you, sir, unless he comes in time,” the housekeeper added despondently. “But I am going to the Hamlet church,” said Clode, rapidly turning things over in his mind. If there was no one at the parish church to conduct the chief service of the week, what a talk there would be! Why it would almost be matter for the bishop’s interference! “You see I cannot possibly neglect that,” he continued, in answer as much to the remonstrance of his own conscience as to the housekeeper. “It was the rector’s own arrangement, Mrs. Baker. You may be sure he will be here in time for the eleven o’clock service. Mr. Homfray has kept him over night. That is all.” “You do not think he has met with an accident, sir? They say the coal-pits on Baer Hill——” “Pooh, pooh! He will be here in a few minutes, you will see,” the curate answered. And he affected to be so cheerfully certain of this that he would not wait even for a little while, but started at once for the Hamlet church—a small chapel-of-ease in the outskirts of the town. There he put on his surplice early, and was ready in excellent time. Punctuality is a virtue. At half-past ten the bells of the great church began to ring, and presently door after door in the quiet streets about it opened silently, and little parties issued forth in their Sunday clothes and walked stiffly and slowly toward the building. At the moment when the High Street was dotted most thickly with these groups, and the small bell was tinkling its impatient summons, the rattle of an old taxed-cart was heard as the vehicle flashed quickly over the bridge at the foot of the street. One and another of the church-goers turned in curiosity to gaze, for such a sound was rare on a Sunday morning. Judge of their astonishment, then, when they recognized, perched up beside the boy who urged on the pony, no less a person than the rector himself! As he jogged up the street in his sorry conveyance and with his sorry companion, he had to pass under the fire of a battery of eyes which did not fail to notice all the peculiarities of his appearance. His tie was awry and his chin unshaven. He had a haggard, dissipated air, as of one who had been up all night, and there was a great smudge on his cheek. He looked dissipated—-nothing less than disreputable, some said; and he seemed aware of it, for he sat erect, gazing straight before him, and declining to see any one. At the top of the street he descended hastily, and, as the bell jerked out its final note, hurried toward the vestry with a depressed and gloomy face. “Well!” said Mr. Bonamy to Kate, who was walking up by his side, and whose face for some mysterious reason was flushed and troubled, “I think that is the coolest young man I have ever met!”