t take the hint, and he held
forth on the brother's cleverness and the sister's beauty. To listen to
the boy one might have thought the Jacobis were much above the average
of human beings--that there must be something idyllic, angelic, and
altogether seraphic in their persons and dispositions; but Malcolm, who
knew his man, discounted largely from this, and kept his amusement and
incredulity to himself.

But the name of Jacobi palled on him at last, and he was counting the
milestones between him and the Wood House rather anxiously, when they
saw Mr. Carlyon standing on the curb with his straw hat very much
tilted over his eyes.

No maiden lady of uncertain age loved her tea better than Malcolm.
Nevertheless, the curate's invitation did not please him.

As he got down from the dog-cart he thought regretfully of the cool,
shady drawing-room at the Wood House, and the pretty tea-table with its
silver urn and old-fashioned china. Cedric was so thoughtless. Of
course his sisters would be expecting them. Carlyon seemed a pleasant
fellow, but he was not sure that he desired a closer acquaintance with
him. Malcolm was inclined to be a little distant, but neither of his
companions seemed to notice it. A low white cottage, standing back in a
shady little garden, was their destination. As Mr. Carlyon unlatched
the gate, Cedric said in an audible aside--

"It is not washing-day, is it, David? I hope Mother Pratt has her
kettle boiling, for Herrick and I are as thirsty as fish."

"My dear fellow, I have no idea," and Mr. Carlyon looked a little
alarmed. "Just look after Mr. Herrick for a few minutes while I tackle
the good lady."

"I don't believe Mrs. Pratt will bring the tea-things for another
half-hour," observed Cedric cheerfully. "Poor old Davie, it is awful
hard lines for him to have such a landlady. She imposes on him
shamefully."

"Why does he put up with it?" returned Malcolm drily. He was not in the
humour to discuss Mr. Carlyon's household arrangements. The room into
which Cedric had ushered him was a very pleasant one. It was rather
low, but a side window with a cushioned recess looked out on a small
lawn, with beautifully-kept flower-beds and long borders filled with
old-fashioned herbaceous flowers, where brown bees were humming in the
sunshine.

"Mrs. Pratt evidently keeps a good gardener," he said, as he took note
of the neatly-shaven and carefully--swept paths.

"David is the gardener," returned Cedric l