The Pagan's Cup. Hume Fergus

to himself. He knew that Leo was in love with Sybil, the daughter of this prosy old archæologist. Simple as Mr Tempest was, he could not be blind to the possibility of his daughter making such an excellent match. "Oh, yes," laughed Pratt, knowingly, "I'm sure his heart is in the right place."

      But by this time the vicar was on his hobby horse, and did not gauge the significance of the speech. "Here," he said, waving his hand towards the four sides of the square in which they stood, "the Romans built a camp. It crowned this hill, and was garrisoned by the tenth legion to overawe the turbulent tribes swarming on the plains below. In fact, this town is built within the camp, as the name shows."

      "How does it show that?" asked Pratt, more to keep the vicar talking than because he cared.

      "The name, man, the name. It is properly Colncester, but by usage has been shortened to Colester. Coln comes from the Latin colonia, a colony, and caster, or cester, is derived from castra, a camp. Colncester therefore means the camp colony, which proves that the original builders of this town erected their dwellings within the circumvallation of the original castra of Claudian. If you will come with me, Mr Pratt, I will show you the remains of this great work."

      "I have seen it several times before," replied Pratt, rather bored by this archæological disquisition. "I know every inch of this place. It doesn't take an American centuries to get round, and six weeks of walking have fixed me up in your local geography. But there's the chapel, vicar. We might walk up there. I'd like to hear a few remarks on the subject of the chapel. Interesting. Oh, I guess so!"

      "Certainly! certainly!" said Tempest, absently, "let us walk, walk," and he strolled away with his hands in his tail-coat pockets, looking something like an elderly jackdaw. Indeed the churchman, with his lean, oval face, his large spectacles and the fluttering black garments on his thin figure, very much resembled a bird. He was scholarly, well-bred and gentle, but wholly unworldly. Since his wife had died seven years before, Sybil had taken charge of the house. Harold Raston, the energetic curate, looked after the parish. But for these two, both clerical and domestic affairs would have been neglected, so immersed was Mr Tempest in his dry-as-dust explorations. Many people said openly that the vicar was past his work and should be pensioned off. Mrs Gabriel, a capable and managing woman, had once hinted as much to him. But the usually placid parson had flown into such a rage, that she had hastily withdrawn herself and her suggestion. "There is nothing more terrible than the rebellion of a sheep." Mrs Gabriel recalled this remark of Balzac's when Tempest, proving himself worthy of his name, swept her in wrath from his study.

      Pratt was quite another specimen of humanity. A neat, dapper, suave little man, undersized yet perfectly proportioned. He had black hair, black eyes, and a clean-shaven face, which constantly wore an expression of imperturbable good-humour. His dress was too neat for the country. A blue serge suit, white spats on brown boots, a Panama hat, gloves and – what he was never without – a smoothly-rolled umbrella. Spick-and-span, he might have stepped out of a glass case, and this was his invariable appearance. No one ever saw Pratt unshaven or untidy. He had been everywhere, had seen everything, and was a most engaging companion, never out of temper and never bored. But for all his smiling ways the villagers held aloof from him. Wishing to break down their barrier of prejudice, the sharp little American had attached himself to the vicar during the good man's usual morning walk. He thought that such a sight might dispose the villagers to relent.

      "I shall not vary my usual walk," remarked Mr Tempest, positively. "We will stroll through the village, return to the chapel, and then, Mr Pratt, I hope you will lunch with me."

      "Delighted, if it will not put Miss Sybil out."

      "No, no. My wife is always prepared for chance visitors," answered the vicar, quite oblivious to the fact that the late Mrs Tempest was resting in the churchyard. "Ha, this is Mrs Jeal. How do you do, Mrs Jeal?"

      Mrs Jeal was in excellent health, and said so with a curtsey. A dumpy, rosy-faced woman was Mrs Jeal, with a pair of extremely wicked black eyes which snapped fire when she was angered. She had a temper, but rarely displayed it, for it suited her better to gain her ends by craft rather than force. Fifteen years ago she had appeared from nowhere, to settle as a midwife in Colester. Contrary to their usual fashion, the villagers had taken her to their bosoms. This was owing to the clever way Mrs Jeal had of managing them, and to her knowledge of herbs. She had cured many sick people whom the doctor had given up, and consequently was not looked upon with favour by Dr James, who had succeeded to the family practice. But even he could not be angry at rosy, laughing Mrs Jeal. "Though I don't like her," confessed Dr James; "the devil looks out of her eyes. Dangerous woman, very dangerous."

      Pratt had no chance of proving this remark of the doctor's to be true, for Mrs Jeal never looked at him. She kept her wicked eyes on the kindly vicar and smiled constantly, punctuating such smiles with an occasional curtsey. "Pearl is not with you?" said Mr Tempest.

      "No, bless her poor heart!" cried Mrs Jeal, "she is up at the chapel. Her favourite place is the chapel, as your reverence knows."

      "She might have a worse place to haunt, Mrs Jeal. Poor soul – poor, mad, innocent child!"

      "Do you call eighteen years of age childish, Mr Tempest?" asked the woman.

      "No, no! I speak of her mind, her poor, weak mind. She is still a child. I beg of you to look after her, Mrs Jeal. We must make her path as pleasant as we may."

      "Then I beg your reverence will tell that Barker to leave her alone."

      "Barker, Barker? Ah, yes, the sexton – of course. Worthy man."

      Mrs Jeal sniffed. "He won't let her stay in the chapel," she said.

      "Tut! tut! This must be seen to. Poor Pearl is God's child, Mrs Jeal, so she has a right to rest in His House. Yes, yes, I'll see to it. Good-day, Mrs Jeal."

      The woman dropped a curtsey, and for the first time shot a glance at Pratt, who was smiling blandly. A nervous expression crossed her face as she caught his eye. The next moment she drew herself up and passed on, crossing herself. Pratt looked after her, still smiling, then hurried to rejoin the vicar, who began to explain in his usual wandering way.

      "A good woman, Mrs Jeal, a good woman," he said. "For some years she has had charge of Pearl Darry, whom she rescued from her cruel father."

      "Is that the insane girl?" said Pratt, idly.

      "Do not talk of one so afflicted in that way, Mr Pratt. Pearl may not be quite right in her head, but she is sane enough to conduct herself properly. If the fact that she is not all herself reached Portfront" – the principal town of the county – "it is possible that the authorities might wish to shut her up, and that would be the death of Pearl. No, no!" said the good vicar, "let her have a fair share of God's beautiful earth, and live to a happy old age. In this quiet place we can afford one natural."

      "Like the village idiot we read about in Scotch tales," said Pratt.

      "Just so, Mr Pratt. In Waverley there is such a one. Pearl Darry is quite harmless, and really has a very beautiful nature. Mrs Jeal is much to be commended for her charity."

      "She looks a charitable woman," said the American, but whether he meant this ironically or not it is hard to say.

      The women of Colester were mostly lace-workers, and toiled at this fairylike craft while their husbands worked in the fields below. During three seasons the mountain men, as they might be called, ploughed the meadow-land, sowed the corn and helped to reap and harvest it. In the winter they returned to live on their earnings and take a holiday. But the women worked all the year through, and Colester lace was famous. As the vicar and Pratt walked down the street, at the door of every house sat a woman with her pillow and pins dexterously making the filmy fabric which was destined to adorn the dress of many a London beauty. They were mostly serious-looking, and some even grim. But all had a smile for the vicar, although they pursed up their lips when they saw the good-natured face of Pratt. Most unaccountable this dislike they had for the American. He was rather annoyed by his pronounced unpopularity.

      "I must really do something to make them like me," he said, much vexed.

      "Tut, tut!" replied the vicar, "liking will come in good time, Mr Pratt. It takes some years for them to fancy a stranger. I was an object