rcock, which flashes every time it veers from south to west;
the snowdrops are getting quite out of date, and the buttercups and
primroses have it all their own way; the grass is making a start, and
getting quite long upon the graves in Friarswood churchyard.

'Really, I should have sent in the Saxon monarch to tidy us up!' says to
himself the tall young Rector, as he stepped over the stile with one long
stride; 'but I suppose he is better engaged.'

That tall young Rector is the Reverend Marcus Cope, six years older, but
young still. The poor old Rector, Mr. John Selby, died four years ago
abroad; and Lady Jane and Miss Selby's other guardians gave the living to
Mr. Cope, to the great joy of all the parish, except the Shepherds, who
have never forgiven him for their own usage of their farming boy, nor for
the sermon he neither wrote nor preached.

The Saxon monarch means one Harold King, who looks after the Rectory
garden and horse, as well as the post-office and other small matters.

The clerk is unlocking the church, and shaking out the surplice, and Mr.
Cope goes into the vestry, takes out two big books covered with green
parchment, and sees to the pen. It is a very good one, judging by the
writing of the last names in that book. They are Francis Mowbray and
Jane Arabella Selby.

'Captain and Mrs. Mowbray will be a great blessing to the place, if they
go on as they have begun,' thinks Mr. Cope. 'How happy they are making
old Lady Jane, and how much more Mrs. Mowbray goes among the cottages now
that she does more as she pleases.'

Then Mr. Cope goes to the porch and looks out. He sees two men getting
over the stile. One is a small slight person, in very good black
clothes, not at all as if they were meant to ape a gentleman, and
therefore thoroughly respectable. He has a thin face, rather pointed as
to the chin and nose, and the eyes dark and keen, so that it would be
over-sharp but that the mouth looks so gentle and subdued, and the whole
countenance is grave and thoughtful. You could not feel half so sure
that he is a certificated school-master, as you can that his very brisk-
looking companion is so.

'Good morning, Mr. Brown.--Good morning, Paul,' said Mr. Cope. 'I did
not expect to see you arrive in this way.'

The grave face glitters up in a merry look of amusement, while, with a
little colouring, he answers:

'Why, Sir, Matilda said it was the proper thing, and so we supposed she
knew best.'