"Poor Kitty! And you want to look at the Bishop and his lawn sleeves, and the girls in their caps, like all the rest of the village," he said, bending over and lifting her high in his strong arms. "Yes. I suppose you've come to see the Bishop too?" said Kitty, with a sigh of contentment. "He's very nice, indoors; but oh! he's lovely when he's got his scarlet coat on. But daddy says I must not think about the clothes, but about all the boys and girls whom he will bless to-day. They'll promise to be good, you know." "Hush! hush!" said Paul, for the procession was upon them. And Kitty, carried away by the thrill of the voices, steadied herself in Paul's arms by clasping hers about his neck, and sang lustily with the rest-- "'Till with the vision glorious Her longing eyes are blest, And the great Church victorious Shall be the Church at rest.'" The last clergyman in the procession before the Bishop was the rector, and Paul could not but be struck by the singular beauty of his look, the joyous ring of his voice. The "vision glorious" was his at that moment; fresh soldiers had just been sworn in to that great army, whose Captain was Christ, and, though some might fall away, there were many whom he prayed would die fighting. That, and more than that, was written clearly on the rector's face. "Did you see him? Did you see him?" whispered Kitty, eagerly. "Isn't he beautiful?" "Yes," said Paul, absently, as he put Kitty back into her carriage. But whilst Kitty referred to the Bishop, Paul spoke of the rector. Then he hurried on his way, anxious not to encounter Sally or May. The brief interval of sunshine was over, and wreaths of mist gathered along the banks of the river, creeping gradually to the slopes above it, dissolving into fine thick rain as the afternoon darkened into night. And still Paul lingered about his business at the farm, until he felt assured that all danger of coming across May was over: a conviction justified by the fact that he met the carriage from the Court, driving home as he returned to the village, catching a glimpse of a lady's figure inside it. "How long has May been gone?" he asked, with studied carelessness, as he let himself into he cottage and saw a girl's figure seated on the rug before the fire. "She's not gone! she's here, wondering why her host was so rude as to absent himself this afternoon. Since when, by the way, have you done her the honour to call her by her Christian name?" And May Webster rose from her lowly position and faced Paul with laughter in her eyes. Paul felt himself caught at a thorough disadvantage; he was dripping with rain and covered with mud, and, confronted thus suddenly with the girl of whom his heart was full, his usual readiness of speech deserted him. "You! you!" he stammered. "But I saw you drive by me not a quarter of an hour ago."