“He told me of your attention in calling so soon to inquire after Clara, but said nothing more”—­a servant just then telling her Francis wished to see her, she excused herself and withdrew.  In the door she met Mr. Denbigh, who made way for her, saying, “your son has arrived, ma’am,” and in an easy but respectful manner he took his place with the guests, no introduction passing, and none seeming necessary.  His misfortunes appeared to have made him acquainted with Mrs. Wilson, and his strikingly ingenuous manner won insensibly on the confidence of those who heard him.  Everything was natural, yet everything was softened by education; and the little party in the rector’s parlor in fifteen minutes felt as if they had known him for years.  The doctor and his son now joined them.  Clara had not come, but she was looking forward in delightful expectation of to-morrow, and wished greatly for Emily as a guest at the new abode.  This pleasure Mrs. Wilson promised she should have as soon as they had got over the hurry of their visit; “our friends,” she added, turning to Grace, “will overlook the nicer punctilios of ceremony, where sisterly regard calls for the discharge of more important duties.  Clara needs the society of Emily just now.”

“Certainly,” said Grace, mildly; “I hope no useless ceremony on the part of Emily would prevent her manifesting natural attachment to her sister—­I should feel hurt at her not entertaining a better opinion of us than to suppose so for a moment.”

“This, young ladies, is the real feeling to keep alive esteem,” cried the doctor, gaily:  “go on, and say and do nothing of which either can disapprove, when tried by the standard of duty, and you need never be afraid of losing a friend that is worth keeping.”

It was three o’clock before the carriage of Mrs. Wilson arrived at the rectory; and the time stole away insensibly in free and friendly communications.  Denbigh had joined modestly, and with the degree of interest a stranger might be supposed to feel, in the occurrences of a circle to which he was nearly a stranger; there was at times a slight display of awkwardness, however, about both him and Mrs. Ives, for which Mrs. Wilson easily accounted by recollections of his recent loss and the scene they had all witnessed in that very room.  This embarrassment escaped the notice of the rest of the party.  On the arrival of the carriage, Mrs. Wilson took her leave.

“I like this Mr. Denbigh greatly,” said Lord Chatterton, as they drove from the door; “there is something strikingly natural and winning in his manner.”

“In his matter too, judging of the little we have seen of him,” replied Mrs. Wilson.

“Who is he, ma’am?”

“I rather suspect he is someway related to Mrs. Ives; her staying from Bolton to-day must be owing to Mr. Denbigh, and as the doctor has just gone he must be near enough to them to be neither wholly neglected nor yet a tax upon their politeness.  I rather wonder he did not go with them.”