“Do not think me ungrateful, doctor,” I answered; “but positively I must and will depart to-morrow.  I cannot stay.”

“Nonsense, man, you shall.  Come, say you will, and I engage, if your intention holds, to release you as early as you like the next day.  I have promised my friend that you will give him the meeting, and you must not refuse me.  Let me have my way to-morrow, and you shall be your own master afterwards.”

“Upon such terms, sir,” I answered immediately, “it would he unpardonable if I persisted.  You shall command me; on the following day, I will seek my fortunes in the world again.”

“Just so,” replied the doctor, and so we separated.

The character of Dr Mayhew was little known to me.  His goodness of heart I had reason to be acquainted with, but his long established love of jesting, his intense appreciation of a joke, practical or otherwise, I had yet to learn.  In few men are united, as happily as they were in him, a steady application to the business of the world, and an almost unrestrained indulgence in its harmless pleasantries.  The grave doctor was a boy at his fireside.  I spent my last day in preparing for my removal, and in rambling for some hours amongst the hills, with which I had become too familiar to separate without a pang.  Long was our leave-taking.  I lingered and hovered from nook to nook, until I had expended the latest moment which it was mine to give.  With a burdened spirit I returned to the house, as my thoughts shifted to the less pleasing prospect afforded by my new position.  I shuddered to think of London, and the fresh vicissitudes that awaited me.

It wanted but a few minutes to dinner when I stepped into the drawing-room.  The doctor had just reached home, after being absent on professional duty since the morning.  The visitor had already arrived; I had heard his knock whilst I was dressing.  Having lost all interest in the doings of the place, I had not even cared to enquire his name.  What was it to me?  What difference could the chance visitor of a night make to me, who was on the eve of exile?  None.  I walked despondingly into the room, and advanced with distant civility towards the stranger.  His face was from me, but he turned instantly upon hearing my step, and I beheld——­Mr Fairman.  I could scarcely trust my eyes.  I started, and retreated.  My reverend friend, however, betrayed neither surprise nor discomposure.  He smiled kindly, held out his hand, and spoke as he was wont in the days of cordiality and confidence.  What did it mean?

“It is a lovely afternoon, Stukely,” began the minister, “worthy of the ripe summer in which it is born.”

“It is, sir,” I replied; “but I shall see no more of them,” I added instantly, anxious to assure him that I was not lurking with sinister design so near the parsonage—­that I was on the eve of flight.  “I quit our friend to-morrow, and must travel many miles away.”