turned round to hail her father's
approach, but both the young people looked up at her instinctively, and
saw her little start, the falling of her knitting-needles, the little
flutter of colour which surprise brought to her maidenly, middle-aged
cheek. How they both divined it I cannot tell, but it certainly was no
surprise to either of them when a tall embarrassed figure, following
the portly one of Mr Wodehouse, stepped suddenly from the noisy gravel
to the quiet grass, and stood gravely awkward behind the father of the
house.

"My dear children, here's the Rector--delighted to see him! we're all
delighted to see him!" cried Mr Wodehouse. "This is my little girl Lucy,
and this is my eldest daughter. They're both as good as curates, though
I say it, you know, as shouldn't. I suppose you've got something tidy
for lunch, Lucy, eh? To be sure you ought to know--how can I tell? She
might have had only cold mutton, for anything I knew--and that won't do,
you know, after college fare. Hollo, Wentworth! I beg your pardon--who
thought of seeing you here? I thought you had morning service, and all
that sort of thing. Delighted to make you known to the Rector so soon.
Mr Proctor--Mr Wentworth of St Roque's."

The Rector bowed. He had no time to say anything, fortunately for him;
but a vague sort of colour fluttered over his face. It was his first
living; and cloistered in All-Souls for fifteen years of his life, how
is a man to know all at once how to accost his parishioners? especially
when these curious unknown specimens of natural life happen to be female
creatures, doubtless accustomed to compliment and civility. If ever any
one was thankful to hear the sound of another man's voice, that person was
the new Rector of Carlingford, standing in the bewildering garden-scene
into which the green door had so suddenly admitted him, all but treading
on the dazzling bundle of narcissus, and turning with embarrassed
politeness from the perpetual curate, whose salutation was less cordial
than it might have been, to those indefinite flutters of blue ribbon
from which Mr Proctor's tall figure divided the ungracious young man.

"But come along to lunch. Bless me! don't let us be too ceremonious,"
cried Mr Wodehouse. "Take Lucy, my dear sir--take Lucy. Though she has
her garden-gloves on, she's manager indoors for all that. Molly here is
the one we coddle up and take care of. Put down your knitting, child,
and don't make an old woman of y