or he _is_ the Rector, you know; and though we go
so often to St Roque's, Mr Wentworth will excuse me saying that he is
a very young man."

Miss Wodehouse was knitting; she did not see the sudden look of dismay
and amazement which the curate of St Roque's darted down upon her, nor
the violent sympathetic blush which blazed over both the young faces.
How shocking that elderly quiet people should have such a faculty for
suggestions! You may be sure Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth, had it
not been "put into their heads" in such an absurd fashion, would never,
all their virtuous lives, have dreamt of anything but friendship. Deep
silence ensued after this simple but startling speech. Miss Wodehouse
knitted on, and took no notice; Lucy began to gather up the flowers into
the basket, unable for her life to think of anything to say. For his
part, Mr Wentworth gravely picked the apple-blossoms off his coat, and
counted them in his hand. That sweet summer snow kept dropping, dropping,
falling here and there as the wind carried it, and with a special
attraction to Lucy and her blue ribbons; while behind, Miss Wodehouse
sat calmly on the green bench, under the May-tree just beginning to
bloom, without lifting her eyes from her knitting. Not far off, the
bright English house, all beaming with open doors and windows, shone in
the sunshine. With the white May peeping out among the green overhead,
and the sweet narcissus in a great dazzling sheaf upon the grass, making
all the air fragrant around them, can anybody fancy a sweeter domestic
out-of-door scene? or else it seemed so to the perpetual curate of St
Roque's.

Ah me! and if he was to be perpetual curate, and none of his great
friends thought upon him, or had preferment to bestow, how do you
suppose he could ever, ever marry Lucy Wodehouse, if they were to wait
a hundred years?

Just then the garden-gate--the green gate in the wall--opened to the
creaking murmur of Mr Wodehouse's own key. Mr Wodehouse was a man
who creaked universally. His boots were a heavy infliction upon the
good-humour of his household; and like every other invariable quality of
dress, the peculiarity became identified with him in every particular of
his life. Everything belonging to him moved with a certain jar, except,
indeed, his household, which went on noiseless wheels, thanks to Lucy
and love. As he came along the garden path, the gravel started all round
his unmusical foot. Miss Wodehouse alone