gant old fool, who could not keep himself
from mischief,--who could only be kept from mischief by the aid of
some such master as his son. As soon as he received the Vicar's
letter he at once sat down and wrote to the bishop. He was so sure
that he was right, that he sent Fenwick's letter to the bishop,
acknowledging what he himself had said at Heytesbury, and justifying
it altogether by an elaborate account of the Vicar's wickedness. "And
now, my lord, let me ask you," said he, in conclusion, "whether you
deem this a proper man to have the care of souls in the large and
important parish of Bullhampton."

The bishop felt himself to be very much bullied. He had no doubt
whatsoever about his parson. He knew that Fenwick was too strong a
man to be acted upon beneficially by such advice as to his private
conduct as a bishop might give, and too good a man to need any
caution as to his conduct. "My Lord Marquis," he said, in reply, "in
returning the endorsed letter from Mr. Fenwick to your lordship, I
can only say that nothing has been brought before me by your lordship
which seems to me to require my interference. I should be wrong if I
did not add to this the expression of my opinion that Mr. Fenwick is
a moral man, doing his duty in his parish well, and an example in my
diocese to be followed, rather than a stumbling block."

When this letter reached the Castle Lord St. George was there. The
poor old Marquis was cut to the quick. He immediately perceived,--so
he told himself,--that the bishop was an old woman, who understood
nothing; but he was sure that St. George would not look at the matter
in the same light. And yet it was impossible not to tell St. George.
Much as he dreaded his son, he did honestly tell everything to his
Mentor. He had already told St. George of Fenwick's letter to him
and of his letter to the bishop, and St. George had whistled. Now he
showed the bishop's letter to his son. St. George read the letter,
refolded it slowly, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he returned
it to his father,--

"Well, my lord, I suppose you like a hornet's nest."

This was the uncomfortable position of things at Bullhampton about
the beginning of June, at which time Mary Lowther was again staying
with her friend Mrs. Fenwick. Carry Brattle was still at Salisbury,
but had not been seen by the Vicar for more than a fortnight. The
Marquis's letter, backed as it was in part by his wife's counsel,
had, much to his own dis