test danger. Had he possessed more of it,
he might have been a less agreeable man, but his course before him
might on that account have been the safer. In person he was manly,
tall, and fair-haired, with a square forehead, denoting intelligence
rather than thought, with clear white hands, filbert nails, and a
power of dressing himself in such a manner that no one should ever
observe of him that his clothes were either good or bad, shabby or
smart.

Such was Mark Robarts when, at the age of twenty-five, or a little
more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage was celebrated in his
own church, for Miss Monsell had no home of her own, and had been
staying for the last three months at Framley Court. She was given
away by Sir George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the
wedding was what it should be, with almost as much care as she had
bestowed on that of her own daughter. The deed of marrying, the
absolute tying of the knot, was performed by the Very Reverend the
Dean of Barchester, an esteemed friend of Lady Lufton's. And Mrs.
Arabin, the dean's wife, was of the party, though the distance from
Barchester to Framley is long, and the roads deep, and no railway
lends its assistance. And Lord Lufton was there of course; and people
protested that he would surely fall in love with one of the four
beautiful bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts, the vicar's second
sister, was by common acknowledgement by far the most beautiful. And
there was there another and a younger sister of Mark's--who did not
officiate at the ceremony, though she was present--and of whom no
prediction was made, seeing that she was then only sixteen, but of
whom mention is made here, as it will come to pass that my readers
will know her hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts. And then the
vicar and his wife went off on their wedding tour, the old curate
taking care of the Framley souls the while. And in due time they
returned; and after a further interval, in due course a child was
born to them; and then another; and after that came the period at
which we will begin our story. But before doing so, may I not assert
that all men were right in saying all manner of good things to the
Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in having such a son?

"You were up at the house to-day, I suppose?" said Mark to his wife,
as he sat stretching himself in an easy chair in the drawing-room,
before the fire, previously to his dressing for dinner. It was
a Nov