her looking guilty and conscious, both of which she felt
she was doing as she replied--"I am sure Mr. Fullarton would not asperse
any one's character knowingly. He could only speak from a sense of duty,
perhaps not a pleasant one."

"Quite so," said Royston; "I don't quarrel with him for any fair
professional move. If he thinks it necessary or expedient to prejudice
indifferent people against me, he is clearly right to do so. Ah! I see,
you think I dislike him. I don't, indeed. Morally and physically, he
seems a little too unctuous, that's all. Capital clergyman for a cold
climate! Fancy how useful he would be in an Arctic expedition. They
might save his salary in Arnott's stoves: I'm certain he _radiates_."

Miss Tresilyan knew that it was wrong to smile. But she had an
unfortunately quick perception of the ridiculous, and the struggles of
principle against a sense of humor were not always successful. She would
not give up her point, though. "I can not think that you judge him
fairly," she persisted.

"Perhaps not; but there is a large class who would scarcely be much
moved by stronger and abler words than, I suppose, we heard
to-day--spoken as they were spoken. These preachers won't study the
fitness of things; that's the worst of it. I have known a garrison
chaplain deliver a discourse that, I am convinced, was composed for a
visitation. It seems absurd to hear a man warning us against a
particular sin, and threatening us with all sorts of penalties if we
indulge in it, when it is impossible that he himself should ever have
felt the temptation. We want some one who can find out the harmless side
of our character, as well as the diseased part, and work upon it. Such a
person may be as strict and harsh as he pleases, but he is listened to."
He paused for a moment, and went on in a graver tone--"I think it might
have done even _me_ some good, when I was younger, to have talked for
half an hour with the man who wrote 'How Amyas threw his sword away.'"

Cecil could not disagree with him now, nor did she wish to do so. She
liked those last words of his better than any he had spoken. Remember,
she was born and bred in the honest west country, where one, at least,
of their own prophets hath honor. If you want to indulge your enthusiasm
for the Rector of Eversley, let your next walking-tour turn thitherward;
for on all the sea-board from Portsmouth to Penzance, there is never a
woman--maid, wife, or widow--that will say y