particular bent should not show itself
too early, lest disgust should result.

'Still,' argued Lady Constantine rather firmly (for she felt this opinion
of the Bishop's to be one throwing doubt on Swithin), 'sustained fruition
is compatible with early bias. Tycho Brahe showed quite a passion for
the solar system when he was but a youth, and so did Kepler; and James
Ferguson had a surprising knowledge of the stars by the time he was
eleven or twelve.'

'Yes; sustained fruition,' conceded the Bishop (rather liking the words),
'is certainly compatible with early bias. Fenelon preached at fourteen.'

'He--Mr. St. Cleeve--is not in the church,' said Lady Constantine.

'He is a scientific young man, my lord,' explained Mr. Torkingham.

'An astronomer,' she added, with suppressed pride.

'An astronomer! Really, that makes him still more interesting than being
handsome and the son of a man I knew. How and where does he study
astronomy?'

'He has a beautiful observatory. He has made use of an old column that
was erected on this manor to the memory of one of the Constantines. It
has been very ingeniously adapted for his purpose, and he does very good
work there. I believe he occasionally sends up a paper to the Royal
Society, or Greenwich, or somewhere, and to astronomical periodicals.'

'I should have had no idea, from his boyish look, that he had advanced so
far,' the Bishop answered. 'And yet I saw on his face that within there
was a book worth studying. His is a career I should very much like to
watch.'

A thrill of pleasure chased through Lady Constantine's heart at this
praise of her chosen one. It was an unwitting compliment to her taste
and discernment in singling him out for her own, despite its temporary
inexpediency.

Her brother Louis now spoke. 'I fancy he is as interested in one of his
fellow-creatures as in the science of astronomy,' observed the cynic
dryly.

'In whom?' said Lady Constantine quickly.

'In the fair maiden who sat at the organ,--a pretty girl, rather. I
noticed a sort of by-play going on between them occasionally, during the
sermon, which meant mating, if I am not mistaken.'

'She!' said Lady Constantine. 'She is only a village girl, a dairyman's
daughter,--Tabitha Lark, who used to come to read to me.'

'She may be a savage, for all that I know: but there is something between
those two young people, nevertheless.'

The Bishop looked as if he had allowed his interest i