“We are going to the school, my lord.  Don’t you think that, as patron of things in general here, it would look well if you walked in, and signified your full approbation of what you know nothing about?”

“So much so, that I was just on my way there with Campbell.  But I must just speak to that lime-burning fellow.  He wants a new lease of the kiln, and I suppose he must have it.  At least, here he comes, running at me open-mouthed, and as dry as his own waistband.  It makes one thirsty to look at him.  I’ll catch you up in five minutes!”

So the three went off to the school.

* * * * *

Grace was telling, in her own sweet way, that charming story of the Three Trouts, which, by the by, has been lately pirated (as many things are) by a religious author, whose book differs sufficiently from the liberal and wholesome morality of the true author of the tale.

“What a beautiful story, Grace!” said Valencia.  “You will surpass Hans Anderssen some day.”

Grace blushed, and was silent a moment.

“It is not my own, my lady.”

“Not your own?  I should have thought that no one but you and Anderssen could have made such an ending to it.”

Grace gave her one of those beseeching, half-reproachful looks, with which she always answered praise; and then,—­“Would you like to hear the children repeat a hymn, my lady?”

“No.  I want to know where that story came from.”

Grace blushed, and stammered.

“I know where,” said Campbell.  “You need not be ashamed of having read the book, Miss Harvey.  I doubt not that you took all the good from it, and none of the harm, if harm there be.”

Grace looked at him; at once surprised and relieved.

“It was a foolish romance-book, sir, as you seem to know.  It was the only one which I ever read, except Hans Anderssen’s,—­which are not romances, after all.  But the beginning was so full of God’s truth, sir, —­romance though it was,—­and gave me such precious new light about educating children, that I was led on unawares.  I hope I was not wrong.”

“This schoolroom proves that you were not,” said Campbell. “’To the pure, all things are pure.’”

“What is this mysterious book?  I must know!” said Valencia.

“A very noble romance, which I made Mellot read once, containing the ideal education of an English nobleman, in the middle of the last century.”

“The Fool of Quality?” said Mellot.  “Of course!  I thought I had heard the story before.  What a well-written book it is, too, in spite of all extravagance and prolixity.  And how wonderfully ahead of his generation the man who wrote it, in politics as well as in religion!”

“I must read it,” said Valencia.  “You must lend it me, Saint Pere.”

“Not yet, I think.”

“Why?” whispered she, pouting.  “I suppose I am not as pure as Grace Harvey?”