, where
Colonel Carrington was staying, said to our stable lad:

"I mun hurry back. Our folks are wantin' t' horses; maister an' t'
Colonel's daughter's going to the church parade. They're sayin' it's a
grand turnout, wi' t' firemen, bands, an' t' volunteers, in big brass
helmets!"

Neither of them saw me, and presently calling the lad I bade him put the
bay horse into the dog-cart.

"He's in a gradely bad temper," said the lad doubtfully. "Not done nothink
but eat for a long time now, an' he nearly bit a piece out of me; I wish
t' maister would shoot him."

I laughed at the warning, though I had occasion to remember it, and
looking for Alice I said, "I am driving in to church to-night. Would you
like to come with me?"

Now Alice Lorimer possessed her father's keen perception, and when he kept
his temper he was perhaps the shrewdest man I ever met; so when she looked
me straight in the face I dropped my eyes, because I really was not
anxious for her company, and should not have gone except in the hope of
seeing Grace Carrington.

"Have you turned religious suddenly, Ralph?" she asked. "Or have you
forgotten you told me yesterday that you did not care to go?"

I made some awkward answer, but Alice smiled dryly, and with a solemn
courtesy said:

"Two are company, three are none. Cousin Ralph, I will not go with you.
But don't leave the dog-cart behind and come back with the shafts."

I went out with a flushed face, and a sense of relief, angry,
nevertheless, that she should read my inmost thoughts, having fancied that
my invitation was a stroke of diplomacy. I learned afterward that
diplomacy is a mistake for the simple man. With a straightforward "Yes" or
"No" he can often turn aside the schemes of the cunning, but on forsaking
these he generally finds the other side considerably too clever for
him--all of which is a wanton digression from the story.

CHAPTER II

THE CHURCH PARADE

It was raining hard when I climbed into the dog-cart and rattled away into
the darkness, while somewhat to my surprise Robert the Devil, or Devilish
Bob, as those who had the care of him called the bay horse, played no
antics on the outward journey, which was safely accomplished. So leaving
him at the venerable "Swan," I hurried through the miry streets toward the
church. They were thronged with pale-faced men and women who had sweated
out their vigor in the glare of red furnace, dye-shop, and humming mill,
but there wa