edn't wait, Vance," said the rector. "Never mind about taking the
things away. I'll ring when you're wanted."

Vance gloomily departed.

"Now the young people have left us, Mrs. Peckover," said Doctor Joyce,
turning to the clown's wife, "there is a good opportunity for my making
a proposition to you, on behalf of my old and dear friend here, Mr.
Blyth, who, as you must have noticed, feels great sympathy and fondness
for your little Mary. But, before I mention this proposal (which I am
sure you will receive in the best spirit, however it may surprise you),
I should wish--we should all wish, if you have no objection--to hear any
particulars you can give us on the subject of this poor child. Do you
feel any reluctance to tell us in confidence whatever you know about
her?"

"Oh dear no, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Peckover, very much amazed. "I should
be ashamed of myself if I went making any objections to anything you
wanted to know about little Mary. But it's strange to me to be in a
beautiful place like this, drinking wine with gentlefolks--and I'm
almost afraid--"

"Not afraid, I hope, that you can't tell us what we are so anxious
to know, quite at your ease, and in your own way?" said the rector,
pleasantly. "Pray, Mrs. Peckover, believe I am sincere in saying that we
meet on equal terms here. I have heard from Mr. Blyth of your motherly
kindness to that poor helpless child; and I am indeed proud to take your
hand, and happy to see you here, as one who should always be an honored
guest in a clergyman's house--the doer of a good and charitable deed. I
have always, I hope, valued the station to which it has pleased God
to call me, because it especially offers me the privilege of being the
friend of all my fellow-christians, whether richer or poorer, higher or
lower in worldly rank, than am myself."

Mrs. Peckover's eyes began to fill. She could have worshipped Doctor
Joyce at that moment.

"Mr. Blyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, sharply, before another word could be
spoken--"excuse me, Mr. Blyth; but really--"

Valentine was trying to pour out a glass of sherry for Mrs. Peckover.
His admiration of the doctor's last speech, and his extreme anxiety to
reassure the clown's wife, must have interfered with his precision of
eye and hand; for one-half of the wine, as he held the decanter, was
dropping into the glass, and the other half was dribbling into a
little river on the cloth. Mrs. Joyce thought of the walnut-wood table
unde