“Good lad! good lad!” replied the delighted Rector. “I knew you would see things in their right light. But come, the lesson is over, and now is the time for play. You must look round at my roses, and the finest bud of the garden will adorn your buttonhole as ‘a reward for your determination.’” Maurice gladly fell in with the Rector’s humor, and together they strolled round the garden to examine and admire his floral treasures. Carriston was like a child in his garden, and his bursts of delight at this or that particular rose tree would have made many a person smile. But Maurice did not smile; he loved his old tutor too well to smile at his simple pleasures, and took scarcely less interest than the Rector himself in the momentous question of transferring this tree over there, or ingrafting a hardy shoot in this sickly-looking plant. Suddenly the Rector stopped, and began to rummage in the pockets of his long black coat. “Dear dear!” he said in a vexed tone; “it is not here, and yet I am sure I placed it in this pocket.” “Placed what, sir?” “A letter! a letter! No, I can’t find it. Maurice, I wish you to stay to luncheon. I have a friend coming.” “Indeed?” “Well, not exactly a friend; but, the fact is, a young man has arrived in the village with a letter of introduction to me from a mutual friend in London. He is at present staying at the Royland Arms, and sent his letter this morning, so I wrote back and asked him to come to luncheon. You must stay and meet him, Maurice, for I hear he is a most delightful man.” “What is his name?” “I cannot remember. He is a Greek. The letter must be in my study, so we will go and look for it. This young Greek is a great traveller, and is now on a visit to England. He had a letter of introduction to my friend, the Archdeacon of Eastminster, who gave him one to me.” “But what does he come to this out-of-the-way place for?” asked Maurice, with that inherent suspicion he had acquired in Bohemia. “I don’t know. I expect he will answer that question for himself at luncheon. Ah, here is the letter—I left it on the table.” “Well, what is his name?” asked Maurice again. The rector adjusted his _pince-nez_, and, smoothing open the letter, read the name aloud:— “Count Constantine Caliphronas.” CHAPTER IV. A MASTERPIECE OF NATURE. The pride of the human Does nature diminish, With spiteful acumen, She roughly will finish A man or a woman, He stout and she thinnish, Till one is not fair, nor the other a true man.