“John,” she said, “Mr Hare has been going in for one of his long walks.  I see him now coming across the park.  I am sure he has walked over the downs; if so he must be wet through.  Have a fire lighted in Mr Norton’s room, put up a pair of slippers for him:  here is the key of Mr Norton’s wardrobe; let Mr Hare have what he wants.”

And having detached one from the many bunches which filled her basket, she went herself to open the door to her visitor.  He was however still some distance away, and standing in the shelter of the loggia she waited for him, watched the vague silhouette resolving itself into colour and line.  But it was not until he climbed the iron fence which separated the park from the garden grounds that the figure grew into its individuality.  Then you saw a man of about forty, about the medium height and inclined to stoutness.  His face was round and florid, and it was set with sandy whiskers.  His white necktie proclaimed him a parson, and the grey mud with which his boots were bespattered told of his long walk.  As is generally the case with those of his profession, he spoke fluently, his voice was melodious, and his rapid answers and his bright eyes saved him from appearing commonplace.  In addressing Mrs Norton he used her Christian name.

“You are quite right, Lizzie, you are quite right; I shouldn’t have done it:  had I known what a state the roads were in, I wouldn’t have attempted it.”

“What is the use of talking like that, as if you didn’t know what these roads were like!  For twenty years you have been making use of them, and if you don’t know what they are like in winter by this time, all I can say is that you never will.”

“I never saw them in the state they are now; such a slush of chalk and clay was never seen.”

“What can you expect after a month of heavy rain?  You are wringing wet.”

“Yes, I was caught in a heavy shower as I was crossing over by Fresh-Combe-bottom.  I am certainly not in a fit state to come into your dining-room.”

“I should think not indeed!  I really believe if I were to allow it, you would sit the whole afternoon in your wet clothes.  You’ll find everything ready for you in John’s room.  I’ll give you ten minutes.  I’ll tell them to bring up lunch in ten minutes.  Stay, will you have a glass of wine before going upstairs?”

“I am afraid of spoiling your carpet.”

“Yes, indeed! not one step further!  I’ll fetch it for you.”

When the parson had drunk the wine, and was following the butler upstairs, Mrs Norton returned to the dining-room with the empty glass in her hand.  She placed it on the chimney piece; she stirred the fire, and her thoughts flowed pleasantly as she dwelt on the kindness of her old friend.  “He only got my note this morning,” she mused.  “I wonder if he will be able to persuade John to return home.”  Mrs Norton, in her own hard, cold way, loved her son, but in truth she thought more of