One evening the Reverend Barnes Puffin was seated in the drawing-room at The Warren conversing with the cousins. Fanchette, in all the pride of her Norman costume, was bringing the little Lucius to bid his mother good-night. Now Fanchette, from his cassock, his sash, his _baretta_, and the collar which had so puzzled poor Mrs. Dodd, had always looked upon the Reverend Barnes Puffin as a veritable Catholic priest, and respected him accordingly. She made him a succession of low courtesies, and placing the little Lucius in his mother's arms, she advanced towards the curate in a respectful manner. To his intense astonishment she suddenly dropped on her knees at his side, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses. Then, in fluent patois, she demanded his blessing. But the curate, unfortunately, did not understand a word she said. Like most curates, he was accustomed to the blandishments which are invariably lavished by the female sex on these most fortunate of men. Interesting penitents had made eyes at him, had squeezed his hand at parting with unnecessary pressure, had loaded him with slippers, vestments, and socks and comforters knitted by their own fair fingers. They had even obtained interviews, and had wickedly taken the opportunity of the _tête-à-tête_ to make violent love to him; but never, in the whole course of his clerical experience, had any of his "dear sisters" suddenly dropped on their knees at his side and violently kissed his hand. Puffin was by no means a vain man. But what could he think? Here was a foreign woman, of prepossessing appearance, administering sounding osculations to his unwilling fingers. "Ladies, dear ladies," he said, as he rose to his feet, the _bonne_ still clinging to his hand and kissing it furiously, "this is most irregular." Here he strove with gentle dignity to try to withdraw his hand, but all to no purpose. "Ladies," he said, blushing violently, and speaking of Fanchette as if she had been an infuriated bull-terrier, "call her off. Please call her off." But the cousins were far too amused at the incident to come to his assistance. Georgie could not forbear a smile, while Lucy burst into inextinguishable peals of silvery laughter. "She wants your blessing, Mr. Puffin, that's all," said Lucy at length. "Then she should come to church, Miss Warrender," exclaimed Mr. Puffin, to whose hand the _bonne_ clung, alternately kissing it and gazing up at him with imploring eyes. "She thinks you are a Catholic priest," exclaimed Lucy. "This is too horrible," cried the Reverend Barnes Puffin, as he vainly struggled to release the imprisoned hand. "Ah, _mon père_," vociferated the _bonne_. "Goodness me, she says I'm her father; pray explain, dear ladies. Is her mind affected?" And then Miss Warrender did explain to her. On hearing that the unhappy curate was not a priest of her own Church, but only, as Lucy had expressed it, a heretical Protestant pastor, Fanchette's demeanour changed altogether.