hall that looked as if it had not been
opened within the memory of man; a grand old gothic church, much too
large for the requirements of the place; a grim square brick box
inscribed "Ebenezer;" and a few prim villas straggling off into the
country.

On one side of the church there was a curious little old-fashioned court,
wonderfully neat and clean, with houses the parlours whereof were sunk
below the level of the pavement, after the manner of these old places.
There was a great show of geraniums in the casements, and a general
aspect of brightness and order distinguished all these modest dwellings.
It was to this court that Mr. Fenton had been directed on inquiring for
Thomas Stoneham, the parish-clerk, at the inn where the coach deposited
him. He was fortunate enough to find Mr. Stoneham sunning himself on the
threshold of his domicile, smoking an after-dinner pipe. A pleasant
clattering of tea-things sounded from the neat little parlour within,
showing that, early as it was, there were already preparations for the
cup which cheers without inebriating in the Stoneham household.

Thomas Stoneham, supported by a freshly-painted door of a vivid green and
an extensive brass plate engraved with his name and functions, was a
personage of some dignity. He was a middle-aged man, ponderous and slow
of motion, with a latent pomposity, which he rendered as agreeable as
possible by the urbanity of his manners. He was a man of a lofty spirit,
who believed in his office as something exalted above all other dignities
of this earth--less lucrative, of course, than a bishopric or the
woolsack, and of a narrower range, but quite as important on a small
scale. "The world might get on pretty well without bishops," thought Mr.
Stoneham, when he pondered upon these things as he smoked his
churchwarden pipe; "but what would become of a parish in which there was
no clerk?"

This gentleman, seeing Gilbert Fenton approach, was quick to surmise that
the stranger came in answer to the letter he had written the day before.
The advent of a stranger in Wygrove was so rare an occurrence, that it
was natural enough for him to jump at this conclusion.

"I believe you are Mr. Stoneham," said Gilbert, "and the writer of a
letter in answer to an advertisement in the _Times_."

"My name is Stoneham, sir; I am the clerk of this parish, and have been
for twenty years and more, as I think I may have stated in the letter to
which you refer. Will you be