n had been reading to her father, and the book was lying
open on the table where she had hurriedly left it upon the arrival of
the visitor. Douglas received a cordial welcome from Nell and the
professor.

"I hope I am not interrupting your quietness," he apologised, as he sat
down near the old man.

"I'm very glad you have interrupted the quietness," Nan quickly
replied. "I'm sick and tired of Shakespeare. He's getting on my
nerves."

"Nan, Nan, you must not talk of the master in that way," her father
chided.

"I thought that you did the reading," Douglas remarked, turning to Nell.

"So I do, as a rule," was the smiling reply. "But Nan doesn't like
peeling apples, and so she preferred to read."

"Ugh! apples stain my fingers and make them feel horrid," Nan exclaimed
in disgust. "I would rather read anything--even Shakespeare."

"How is your work getting on, sir?" Douglas enquired, turning toward
the professor.

"Slowly, very slowly, these days," was the reply. "There are several
points I wish to think out carefully before I put them in writing. But
we can talk about such matters again. I am eager now to hear about the
Church meeting which was held last night. I suppose you were there?"

"Oh, yes, I wished to see and hear the new archdeacon, Dr. Rannage."

"What, was he there?"

"Yes, and two other delegates with him."

"Tell me about the meeting, please," and the professor leaned back
comfortably in his chair.

As briefly as possible Douglas narrated the events of the meeting. He
glanced occasionally at Nell, and noticed that at times she ceased her
work to listen.

"So nothing was accomplished, then?" the professor queried when Douglas
finished.

"Nothing that I could see, except to make it all the harder for the new
clergyman who is coming here."

"Oh, he'll find it hard enough, all right, trust Si Stubbles for that.
If he's anything like the last clergyman we had, he'll soon give in.
I'm afraid that he will be a man of straw when it is a man of iron we
need."

Douglas smiled to himself. He was enjoying the various comments he was
hearing about himself, and he wondered what the professor and others
would think if they knew who he really was.

"A clergyman is supposed to be a 'steward of the mysteries,'" the old
man continued. "Now, when I think of those words, I always picture to
myself a mother standing before a cupboard with a bunch of keys in her
hand. By her side are several c