The New Rector. Weyman Stanley John

without a halfpenny."

      "That was bad."

      "Yes, it was, sir. I do not know that I ever felt so bad in my life," replied the servant earnestly. "And now you know my position, sir. There are several people in the town-but they have no means to help me-who can tell you I am his lordship's valet, and my name Charles Felton."

      "You want help, I suppose?"

      "I have not a halfpenny, sir! I want something to live on until his lordship comes back."

      His tone changed as he said this, growing hard and almost defiant. The rector noted the alteration, and did not like it. "But why come to me?" he said, more coldly than he had yet spoken. "Why do you not go to Lord Dynmore's steward, or agent, or his solicitor, my man?"

      "They would tell of me," was the curt answer. "And likely enough I should lose my place."

      "Still, why come to me?" Lindo persisted-chiefly to learn what was in the man's mind, for he had already determined what he would do.

      "Because you are rector of Claversham, sir," the applicant retorted at last. And he rose suddenly and confronted the parson with an unpleasant smile on his pale face-"which is in my lord's gift, as you know, sir," he continued, in a tone rude and almost savage-a tone which considerably puzzled his companion, who was not conscious of having said anything offensive to the man. "I came here, sir, expecting to meet an older gentleman, a gentleman of your name, a gentleman known to me, and I find you-and I see you, do you see, where I expected to find him."

      "You mean my uncle, I suppose?" said Lindo.

      "Well, sir, you know best," was the odd reply, and the man's look was as odd as his words. "But that is how the case stands; and, seeing it stands so, I hope you will help me, sir. I do hope, on every account, sir, that you will see your way to help me."

      The rector looked at the speaker with a slight frown, liking neither the man nor his behavior. But he had already made up his mind to help him, if only in gratitude to his patron, whose retainer he was; and this, though the earl would never know of the act, nor possibly approve of it. The man had at least had the frankness to own the folly which had brought him to these straits, and Lindo was inclined to set down the oddity of his present manner to the fear and anxiety of a respectable servant on the verge of disgrace. "Yes," he said coldly, after a moment's thought, "I am willing to help you. Of course I shall expect you to repay me if and when you are able, Felton."

      "I will do that," replied the man rather cavalierly.

      "You might have added, 'and thank you, sir,'" the rector said, with a keen glance of reproof. He turned, as he spoke, to a small cupboard constructed between the bookshelves near the fireplace, and, opening it, took out a cash-box.

      The man colored under his reproach, and muttered some apology, resuming, as by habit, the tone of respect which seemed natural to him. All the same he watched the clergyman's movements with great closeness, and appraised, even before it was placed in his hand, the sum which Lindo took from a compartment set apart apparently for gold. "I will allow you ten shillings a week-on loan, of course," Lindo said after a moment's thought. "You can keep yourself on that, I suppose? And, besides, I will advance you a sovereign to supply yourself with anything of which you have pressing need. That should be ample. There are three half sovereigns."

      This time the man did thank him with an appearance of heartiness. But before he had said much the study door opened, and Stephen Clode came in, his hat in his hand. "Oh, I beg your pardon," the curate said, taking in at a glance the open cash-box and the stranger's outstretched hand, and preparing to withdraw. "I thought you were alone."

      "Come in, come in!" said the rector, closing the money-box hastily, and with some embarrassment, for he was not altogether sure that he had not done a foolish and quixotic thing. "Our friend here is going. You can send me your address, Felton. Good-day."

      The man thanked him and, taking up his hat, went. "Some one out of luck?" said Clode.

      "Yes."

      "I did not much like his looks," the curate remarked. "He is not a townsman, or I should know him." The rector felt that his discretion was assailed, and hastened to defend himself. "He is respectable enough," he said carelessly. "As a fact, he is Lord Dynmore's valet."

      "But has Lord Dynmore come back?" the curate exclaimed, his hand arrested in the act of taking down a book from a high shelf, and his head turning quickly. If he expected to learn anything, however, from his superior's demeanor he was disappointed. Lindo was busy locking the cupboard, and had his back to him.

      "No, he has not come back," Reginald explained, "but he has sent the man home, and the foolish fellow lost his money on the boat coming over, and wants an advance until his master's return."

      "But why on earth does he come to you for it?" cried the curate, with undisguised, astonishment.

      The rector shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I do not know," he said, a trifle of irritation in his manners. "He did, and there is an end of it. Is there any news?"

      Mr. Clode seemed to find a difficulty in at once changing the direction of his thoughts. But he did so with an effort, and, after a pause, answered, "No, I think not. There is a good deal of interest felt in the question of the sheep out there, I fancy-whether you will take your course or comply with Mr. Bonamy's whim."

      "I do not know myself," said the young rector, turning and facing the curate, with his feet apart and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. "I do not, indeed. It is a serious matter."

      "It is. Still you have the responsibility," said the curate with diffidence, "and, without expressing any view of my own on the subject, I confess-"

      "Well?"

      "I think if I bore the responsibility, I should feel called upon to do what I myself thought right in the matter."

      The younger man shook his head doubtfully. "There is something in that," he said; "but, on the other hand, one cannot look on the point as an essential, and, that being so, perhaps one should prefer peace. But, there, enough of that now, Clode. I think you said you were not going to the Hammonds' this evening?"

      "No, I am not."

      The rector almost wished he were not. However sociable a man may be, a few days of solitude and a little temporary depression will render him averse from society if he be sensitive. Lindo as a man was not very sensitive; he held too good an opinion of himself. But as rector he was, and as he walked across to the Town House he anticipated anything but enjoyment.

      In a few minutes, however-has it not some time or other happened to all of us? – everything was changed with him. He felt as if he had entered another world. The air of culture and refinement which surrounded him from the hall inward, the hearty kindness of Mrs. Hammond, the pretty rooms, the music and flowers, Laura's light laughter and pleasant badinage, all surprised and delighted him. The party might almost have been a London party, it was so lively. The archdeacon, a red-faced, cherry, white-haired man, whose acquaintance Lindo had already made, and his wife, who was a mild image of himself, were of the number, which was completed by their daughter and four or five county people, all prepared to welcome and be pleased with the new rector. Lindo, sprung from gentlefolk himself, had the ordinary experience of society; but here he found himself treated as a stranger and a dignitary to a degree of notice and a delicate flattery of which he had not before tasted the sweets. Perhaps he was the more struck by the taste displayed in the house, and the wit and liveliness of his new friends, because he had so little looked for them-because he had insensibly judged his parish by his experience of Mr. Bonamy, and had come expecting this house to be as his.

      If, under these circumstances, the young fellow had been unaffected by the incense offered to him he would have been more than mortal. But he was not. He began, before he had been in the house an hour, to change, all unconsciously of course, his standpoint. He began to wonder especially why he had been so depressed during the last few days, and why he had troubled himself so much about the opinions of people whose views no sensible man would regard.

      Perhaps the girl beside him-he took in Laura-contributed as much as anything to this. It was not only that she was bright and sparkling, in the luxury of her pearls and evening dress even enchanting, nor only that the