and--there was little of startling interest in the
diary. It recorded descriptions of the wild moorland scenery, of birds,
and ferns, and flowers. Also there were sketches of the peasantry and
of the gentlefolk with whom the writer came in contact; very shrewd
and clever, some of them, but with this peculiarity--that they were
absolutely free from unkindness of thought or words, though sometimes
their author allowed herself the license of a mitigated satire. Such
things, with notes of domestic and parish matters, and of the progress
made in her arduous and continual study of vocal and instrumental music,
made up the sum of these years of the diary. Then at length, at the
beginning of the last volume, came this entry:

"The unexpected has happened, somebody has actually been found in whose
eyes this cure of souls is desirable--namely, a certain Mr. Tomley, the
rector of a village called Monksland, upon the East Coast of England. I
will sum up the history of the thing. For some years I have been getting
tired of this place, although, in a way, I love it too. It is so lonely
here, and--I confess my weakness--playing and singing as I do now, I
should like, occasionally, to have a better audience than a few old,
half-deaf clergymen, their preoccupied and commonplace wives, some
yeomen farmers, and a curate or two.

"It was last year, though I find that I didn't put it down at the time,
that at the concert in aid of the rebuilding of Pankford church I played
Tartini's 'Il Trillo del Diavolo,' to me one of the weirdest and most
wonderful bits of violin music in the world. I know that I was almost
crying when I finished it. But next day I saw in the report in the local
paper, written by 'Our Musical Man,' that 'Miss Fregelius then relieved
the proceedings with a comic interlude on the violin, which was much
appreciated by the audience.' It was that, I confess it--yes, the
idiotic remark of 'Our Musical Man,' which made me determine if it was
in any way possible that I would shake the dust of this village off my
feet. Then, so far as my father is concerned, the stipend is wretched
and decreasing. Also he has never really got on here; he is too shy,
too reserved, perhaps, in a way, too well read and educated, for these
rough-and-ready people. Even his foreign name goes against him. The
curates about here call him 'Frigid Fregelius.' It is the local idea of
a joke.

"So I persuaded him to advertise for an exchange, although he s