“I thank you, my dear doctor,” rejoined the baronet; “I have not only come myself, but have persuaded Mr. Benfield to make one of the party; there he comes, leaning on Emily’s arm, and finding fault with Mrs. Wilson’s new-fashioned barouche, which he says has given him cold.”

The rector received the unexpected guest with the kindness of his nature, and an inward smile at the incongruous assemblage he was likely to have around him by the arrival of the Jarvis’s, who, at that moment, drove to his door.  The introductions between the baronet and the new comers had passed, and Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology on behalf of the colonel, who was not yet well enough to come out, but whose politeness had insisted on their not remaining a home on his account, as Mr. Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles, walked deliberately up to the place where the merchant had seated himself, and having examined him through his glasses to his satisfaction, took them off, and carefully wiping them, he began to talk to himself as he put them into his pocket—­“No, no; it’s not Jack, the hackney coachman, nor my Lord Gosford’s gentleman, but”—­cordially holding out both hands, “it’s the man who saved my twenty thousand pounds.”

Mr. Jarvis, whom shame and embarrassment had kept silent during this examination, exchanged greetings sincerely with his old acquaintance, who now took a seat in silence by his side; while his wife, whose face had begun to kindle with indignation at the commencement of the old gentleman’s soliloquy, observing that somehow or other it had not only terminated without degradation to her spouse, but with something like credit, turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an apology for the absence of her son.

“I cannot divine, ma’am, where he has got to; he is ever keeping us waiting for him;” and, addressing Jane, “these military men become so unsettled in their habits, that I often tell Harry he should never quit the camp.”

“In Hyde Park, you should add, my dear, for he has never been in any other,” bluntly observed her husband.

To this speech no reply was made, but it was evidently little relished by the ladies of the family, who were a good deal jealous of the laurels of the only hero their race had ever produced.  The arrival and introduction of the captain himself changed the discourse, which turned on the comforts of their present residence.

“Pray, my lady,” cried the captain, who had taken a chair familiarly by the side of the baronet’s wife, “why is the house called the deanery?  I am afraid I shall be taken for a son of the church, when I invite my friends to visit my father at the deanery.”

“But you may add, at the same time, sir, if you please,” dryly remarked Mr. Jarvis, “that it is occupied by an old man, who has been preaching and lecturing all his life; and, like others of the trade, I believe, in vain.”

“You must except our good friend, the doctor here, at least, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson; who, observing that her sister shrank from a familiarity she was unused to, took upon herself the office of replying to the captain’s question:  “The father of the present Sir William Harris held that station in the church, and although the house was his private property it took its name from the circumstance, which has been continued ever since.”