“Quite sure,” he answered; “surer than ever—­if that were possible.  You are not beginning to doubt that?  Certainly it is a silly little brain, if that’s what its thinking is coming to.”

“I don’t mean it for myself.  Little women have nothing but love to think of; but great men, men with a mission in the world ...”

“Please, Jenny!”

“Well, dear, I mean it; and I sometimes think that perhaps, perhaps, I’m hindering your life; that if you were to be bothered with love at all, you should have married some clever, wonderful woman,—­woman, say, like Isabel.”

“Jenny!”

“Of course, dear, I know you don’t think so,” she continued; and he realised that it was all artless accident on her part—­“Still I cannot help thinking it for you sometimes, dear, and sometimes I feel very selfish to have your love,—­as though, so to say, I was wearing someone else’s crown.”

“Jenny dear, will you promise never to talk like that again?  A clever woman!  To be a woman is to be a genius, but to be a clever woman is to be another man of talent.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to Isabel.”

“No,” assented Theophil, “Isabel is different too.”

And that brought them to Theophil’s office and good-bye till the evening.

For the evening there had been fixed an important church meeting, the first annual business meeting of minister and deacons since Londonderry had come to New Zion.  It was an occasion of jubilation all round, particularly for Mr. Moggridge, who gave voice to New Zion’s general satisfaction, you may be sure, in no uncertain terms of praise.

New Zion was, indeed, New Zion once more, he said, thanks to their indefatigable young pastor,—­a play on words which was received with the applause due to so unmistakable a union of wit and truth.

Nor did the proceedings result in mere compliments.  The church found itself rich enough to increase its minister’s stipend; and when Theophil took Mr. Moggridge back to supper, another surprise awaited him, in the form of a suspicious-looking letter, which, being opened, revealed a quite unexceptionable L50 note, enclosed in a sheet of note-paper, on which was written—­“From never mind who.”

The writing was unknown to Londonderry, but there could be only one culprit.

“Of course, Mr. Moggridge, this is from you.  Really ...”

“No, sir, indeed; you make a mistake there,” protested Moggridge, lying badly, and growing purple.

“Who do you suspect, Jenny?”

“Why, of course, it’s Mr. Moggridge!”

“Mr. Moggridge!” exclaimed Jenny impulsively, throwing her arms round Mr. Moggridge’s surprised shoulders, and kissing him somewhere in his whiskers,—­“Mr. Moggridge! you are the dearest, kindest man in the world!”

And Jenny was not far wrong.

“Mr. Londonderry,” said Mr. Moggridge, by way of changing the subject, and warmly grasping the young man’s hand, “New Zion’s proud of you, sir—­and so is Eli Moggridge.”