hours looking at his own little chair,
solemnly seating himself at long intervals where no chair was. But his
mind was working, and work, as we know, is the panacea for mental
anguish.

Mr. Gresley had recovered that buoyancy of spirits which was the theme
of Mrs. Gresley's increasing admiration.

On this particular evening, when his wife had asked him if the beef were
tender, he had replied, as he always did if in a humorous vein:
"Douglas, Douglas, tender and true." The arrival of the pot of marmalade
(that integral part of the mysterious meal which begins with meat and is
crowned with buns) had been hailed by the exclamation, "What! More
family jars." In short, Mr. Gresley was himself again.

The jocund Vicar, with his arm round Mrs. Gresley, proceeded to the
drawing-room.

On the hall table was a large parcel insured for two hundred pounds. It
had evidently just arrived by rail.

"Ah! ha!" said Mr. Gresley. "My pamphlets at last. Very methodical of
Smithers insuring them for such a large sum," and, without looking at
the address, he cut the string.

"Well packed," he remarked. "Water-proof sheeting, I do declare.
Smithers is certainly a cautious man. Ha! at last!"

The inmost wrapping shelled off, and Mr. Gresley's jaw dropped. Where
were the little green and gold pamphlets entitled "Modern Dissent," for
which his parental soul was yearning? He gazed down frowning at a solid
mass of manuscript, written in a small, clear hand.

"This is Hester's writing," he said. "There is some mistake."

He turned to the direction on the outer cover.

"Miss Hester Gresley, care of Rev. James Gresley." He had only seen his
own name.

"I do believe," he said, "that this is Hester's book, refused by the
publisher. Poor Hester! I am afraid she will feel that."

His turning over of the parcel dislodged an unfolded sheet of
note-paper, which made a parachute expedition to the floor. Mr. Gresley
picked it up and laid it on the parcel.

"Oh! it's not refused, after all," he said, his eye catching the sense
of the few words before him. "Hester seems to have sent for it back to
make some alterations, and Mr. Bentham--I suppose that is the
publisher--asks for it back with as little delay as possible. Then she
has sold it to him. I wonder what she got for it. She got a hundred for
_The Idyll_. It is wonderful to think of, when Bishop Heavysides got
nothing at all for his Diocesan sermons, and had to make up thirty
pounds out o