he will not keep them? Such blessed moments of lifting up
of the heart were Priscilla's as she sat in the churchyard waiting,
invisibly surrounded by the most beautiful resolutions it is possible
to imagine. The Rev. Edward Morrison, the vicar of whom I have spoken
as venerable, coming slowly up the path leaning on his son's arm with
the intention of going into the church in search of a mislaid
sermon-book, saw Priscilla's thoughtful back under the elm-tree and
perceived at once that it was a back unknown to him. He knew all the
Symford backs, and tourists hardly ever coming there, and never at
that time of the year, it could not, he thought, be the back of a
tourist. Nor could it belong to any one staying with the
Shuttleworths, for he had been there that very afternoon and had found
Lady Shuttleworth rejoicing over the brief period of solitude she and
her son were enjoying before the stream of guests for the coming of
age festivities began.

"Robin, what girl is that?" asked the vicar of his son.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Robin.

"She'll catch cold," said the vicar.

"I dare say," said Robin.

When they came out of the church ten minutes later Priscilla had not
moved.

"She'll certainly catch cold," said the vicar, concerned.

"I should think it very likely," said Robin, locking the door.

"She's sitting on a stone."

"Yes, on old Dawson's slab."

"Unwise," said the vicar.

"Profane," said Robin.

The vicar took his boy's arm again--the boy, head and shoulders taller
than his father, was down from Cambridge for the vacation then drawing
to its close--and moved, I fear, by the same impulse of pure curiosity
they walked together down the path that would take them right in front
of the young woman on the slab.

Priscilla was lost in the bright dreams she was weaving, and looked up
with the radiance of them still in her eyes at the two figures between
her and the sunset.

"My dear young lady," said the vicar kindly, "are you not afraid of
catching cold? The evenings are so damp now, and you have chosen a
very cold seat."

"I don't feel cold," said Priscilla, smiling at this vision of
benevolence.

"But I do think you ought not to linger here," said the vicar.

"I am waiting for my uncle. He's gone to buy a cottage, and ought to
be back, really, by now."

"Buy a cottage?" repeated the vicar. "My dear young lady, you say
that in the same voice you might use to tell me your uncle had gone to
bu