“Do the work. Miss Ceswick, and the faith will come; sow the seed and the tree will spring up, and bear fruit too in due season.” There was no reply, so he continued: “Then I have your permission to put you down for a district?” “O yes, Mr. Plowden,” answered Florence. “Will you take some more tea?” Mr. Plowden would take no more tea, but went on his way to finish the day’s work he had mapped out for himself—for he worked hard and according to a strict rule—reflecting that Eva Ceswick was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. “I think that we must congratulate you on a conquest, Eva,” said Miss Ceswick, cheerfully, as the front door closed. “Mr. Plowden never took his eyes off you, and really, my dear, I do not wonder at it; you look charming.” Eva flushed up angrily. “Nonsense, aunt!” she said, and left the room. “Really,” said Miss Ceswick, “I don’t know what has come to Eva lately, she is so very strange.” “I expect that you have touched her on a sore point. I rather fancy that she has taken a liking to Mr. Plowden,” said Florence, dryly. “O, indeed!” answered the old lady, nodding her head wisely. In due course a district was assigned to the two Miss Ceswicks, and for her part Eva was glad of the occupation. It brought her a good deal into contact with Mr. Plowden, which was not altogether pleasant to her, for she cherished a vague dislike of the clergyman, and did not admire his shifty eyes. But, as she got to know him better, she could find nothing to justify her dislike. He was not, it is true, quite a gentleman, but that was his misfortune. His manner to herself was subdued and almost deferential; he never obtruded himself upon her society, though somehow he was in it almost daily. Indeed, he even succeeded in raising her to some enthusiasm about her work, a quality in which poor Eva had of late been sadly lacking. She thought him a very good clergyman, with his heart in his duty. But she disliked him all the same. Eva never answered Ernest’s letter. Once she began an answer, but bethought her of Florence’s sage advice, and changed her mind. “He will write again,” she said to herself. She did not know Ernest; his was not a nature to humble itself before a woman. Could she have seen her lover hanging about the steps of the Maritzburg post-office when the English mail was being delivered, in order to go back to the window when the people had dispersed, and ask the tired clerk if he was “sure” that there were no more letters for Ernest Beyton, and get severely snubbed for his pains, perhaps her heart would have relented. And yet it was a performance which poor Ernest went through once a week out there in Natal. One mail-day Mr. Alston went with him. “Well, Ernest, has it come?” he asked, as he came down the steps, a letter from Dorothy in his hand. “No, Alston, and never will. She has thrown me over.” Mr. Alston took his arm, and walked away with him across the market-square.