over his work. He wished to avoid greeting him. There was talk, no
doubt, up at the village. . . .

But the postman was not to be denied. He stopped and hailed across the
stream.

"Hulloa, Parson! I've just left a letter for you up at the Parsonage: a
long blue letter, and important, by the look of it, with a seal--a man's
hand coming out of a castle. Do you know it?"

"No," answered Parson Jack. "Did you come out of your way to tell me
this?"

"Not quite; though I'd do as much for 'ee any day, out of friendliness.
But, tell 'ee the truth, I was sent to seek you with a message."

"A message?"

"Sir Harry has ridden over from Carwithiel, and wants you up to church.
He's there waitin' with his nephew, a narra-chested slip of a chap with
a square-cut collar and a Popish sort of face."

Parson Jack lifted his shovel and passed his palm over its blade, which
the sand had already polished. "Thank you," said he, "I'll be going at
once."

But he made no motion to start while the postman stood eyeing him.
A sudden selfish fear paralysed him. Had Sir Harry heard? And was this
the end of his patron's forbearance? No; the news could not have
reached Carwithiel so quickly. He had no enemy to arise early and carry
it; to no living creature were even his follies of such importance.

"Don't forget your letter," the postman reminded him, moving off towards
the foot-bridge.

Parson Jack watched him as he crossed it, and until he had scaled the
western slope and disappeared over its shoulder. Then, kneeling by the
stream, he dipped his head, and let the icy water run past his temples.
When he raised it again his plain face was glowing, for hard fare and
life in the open weather kept his complexion clear and ruddy. But the
hand gripping the sack on his shoulder shook as he climbed the hill.

By the lych-gate he found two saddle-horses tethered, and just outside
the porch stood Sir Harry Vyell--a strikingly handsome man with a
careless thoroughbred look; in fact, well over sixty, but apparently ten
years younger. By habit he dressed well, and was scrupulously careful
of his person; by habit, too, he remained sweet of temper and kindly of
speech. But beneath this mask of habit the heart had withered, a while
ago, to dust, and lay in the grave of his only son.

"Ah? Good morning, Flood!" cried Sir Harry genially. Parson Jack,
reassured, felt the colour rushing into his face. "I've brought over my
nephew Clem