s.'

'_I_ am not a parishioner,' replied Watkins.

'Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?' inquired Parsons, thrusting
himself forward.

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is
practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not
to be disturbed.'

'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; 'Mr.
Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.'

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his
message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were
heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands
with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

'How do you do, sir?' said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

'How do _you_ do, sir?' replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it
were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very
likely was.

'I beg to deliver this note to you,' said Watkins Tottle, producing the
cocked-hat.

'From Miss Lillerton!' said Timson, suddenly changing colour. 'Pray sit
down.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his
eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked
dubiously at Parsons. 'May I ask,' he inquired, appealing to Watkins
Tottle, 'whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your
visit?'

'Our friend is in _my_ confidence,' replied Watkins, with considerable
importance.

'Then, sir,' said Timson, seizing both Tottle's hands, 'allow me in his
presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part
you have acted in this affair.'

'He thinks I recommended him,' thought Tottle. 'Confound these fellows!
they never think of anything but their fees.'

'I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,'
continued Timson. 'Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few
men who would have acted as you have done.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was
anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily, 'When
is it to be?'

'On Thursday,' replied Timson,--'on Thursday morning at half-past eight.'

'Uncommonly early,' observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant
self-denial. 'I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.'
(This was inte