d, genial way, when his visitor looked up, rose,
hesitated, and seemed about to say something. There was such a
remarkable expression in his face that the good parson afterwards said
he should never forget it; but it passed, and with a smile, which was
half trustful, half sorrowful, the actor turned away.

"Well, then, if you think I ought to go, I'll say yes," he replied; "but
I had thought to spend the last night here with you."

"I sha'n't have done work much before ten myself," said the vicar; "for
I must see about the beef and bread for the pensioners, and there are
the cakes for the school treat, and no end of things. So we'll meet at a
late supper; don't stay to the club pies and sausages, but get back in
time for ours. There's no need to say, Don't drink too much of the
'George and Gate' ale and brandy, for you never take much of either, so
far as I know."

It was a special evening at the "George and Gate," and every member of
the club who could leave his shop was there by eight o'clock. The
low-ceilinged but handsome parlour was all bright and tidy, and the
plates stood on a sideboard ready for supper. Two noble punch-bowls
graced the table, and a number of long "churchwarden" pipes supported
the large brass coffer filled with tobacco, which opened only by some
cunning mechanism, set in motion by dropping a halfpenny in a slit at
the top. Mr. Binks was in the chair; Clodd, the butcher, sat opposite; a
great fragrance of spice and lemon-peel pervaded the place. It only
needed a speech to commence the proceedings, and Mr. Binks was equal to
the occasion. It was a hearty welcome to their visitor. He responded
with a few words and a recitation. There was a song and another toast,
and then the accomplished visitor played on the "George and Gate" fiddle
in a manner that astonished everybody--played it behind his back, over
his head, under his arm, between his knees with the bow in his mouth.
Then he showed a few tricks with the cards, spun plates, passed coins
and watches into space, and sung a song with a violin accompaniment. The
evening was in his honour, and he opened his whole repertoire of
accomplishments. Time passed quickly; the waiters were at the door with
the table-cloths ready to lay for supper. Mr. Clodd proposed "The Health
of the Vicar." They all rose to do it honour, and called upon De
Montfort to reply. He had his glass in his hand--just touching it with
his lips. "I wish," he said, and then he sto