The remembrance of the three Misses Richards was indeed rather heavy upon him; especially from the circumstance of Miss Mary's having accidentally seen him kiss Miss Louisa, which he happened to do, in the little shrubbery behind their cottage, upon occasion of a serious discourse which they had been holding together upon the nature and influence of especial grace. Little Mary, who was purity and simplicity personified, firmly believed, in her very innocent heart, that this caress could only be given by such a gentleman as Mr. Cartwright as the ratification of a treaty of marriage; and had accordingly not only alluded to Louisa's happy prospects herself, but had fully persuaded her sister Charlotte likewise to believe that this blessed union would be the result of the vicar's soft attentions to them all. So that upon a smart discussion with their mother upon the sin of works, when matters had gone so far as to induce the young lady to declare that she considered the door of her mother's house as nothing less than a type of the gates of hell, she had, in relating the scene of this praiseworthy combat to their apostle, ventured these remarkable words: "There is sorrow and sin in dwelling under the roof of the scorner; but when dear Louisa has quite consented to all your wishes, Mr. Cartwright, her bowels will yearn towards her sisters, and you will both of you draw us out of the way of temptation under the shelter and the shadow of your wing." The only reply which the vicar made to this speech was the utterance of a fervent blessing. He now remembered with considerable satisfaction the cautious tendency of this reply, and, upon the whole, thought that there was no occasion to fatigue his spirits by making these young ladies a private visit to announce his change of condition, as in the case of Mrs. Simpson. He therefore turned from the widow's door, after the pause of a moment on her threshold, during which these thoughts were rapidly but healthily digested, leaving him, that is to say, neither loaded with remorse, nor fevered by anxiety. Upon this occasion, for some reason or other, connected perhaps with that tranquillity of mind in his lady which it was so unquestionably his duty to guard, the Vicar of Wrexhill had not made use of his carriage and servants. He walked therefore back to the Park, and met Charles Mowbray coming through the lodge gates, as he entered them. The young man touched his hat, and was walking on; but the vicar stopped him. "Where are you going, my dear Charles?" said he. "It is getting quite late; you will not have time for a walk before dinner--it is almost dark. You know my habits are those of great punctuality." "I shall never interfere with those habits, sir. It is probable that I may not return to dinner." "Indeed!--we shall be very sorry to lose you. Where are you going, then, my dear boy?"