The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during the latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up to the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily, swearing at the same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard, approaching his uncle’s seat, made a deep inclination of respect, first to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her cheek to her brow and bosom. “I have to crave your excuse,” said the Colonel with hesitation, “for having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable.” “So far from it, nephew,” answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness of manner than Everard had dared to expect, “that your visits at other times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often at our hours of worship.” “I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects and denominations,” replied Everard, “will be free in conscience to worship in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by that affectionate name.” “I hope so too, nephew,” said the old man in the same unaltered tone; “and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church of England coalesce with the Conventicle, or the Conventicle conform to the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds, that you have honoured our poor dwelling, where, to say the truth, we dared scarce have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome.” “I should be happy to believe,” said Colonel Everard, hesitating, “that—that—in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on that occasion.” “Nephew,” said Sir Henry, “I will be frank with you. When you were last here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed on you; but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat chafed, as honest Will says, ‘the rash humour which my mother gave me.’ I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am mistaken—I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can pardon.” “I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “when their general purport sounds kind; but I can protest before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught with love to you and to yours.” “Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome.”