was perhaps more methodical than most; therein it was characteristic of the man.  From May to September, Mr. Woodgate never failed to finish his sermon on the Friday, that on the Saturday he might be free to play cricket with his men and lads.  He was a poor preacher and no cricketer at all; but in both branches he did his best, with the simple zeal and the unconscious sincerity which redeemed not a few of his deficiencies.

So intent was the vicar upon his task, so engrossed in the expression of that which had already been expressed many a million times, that he did not hear wheels in his drive, on the side where the wind sang loudest; he heard nothing until the door opened, and a girl in her twenties, trim, slim, and brown with health, came hurriedly in.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, dear, but who do you think is here?”

Hugh Woodgate turned round in his chair, and his honest ox-eyes filled with open admiration of the wife who was so many years younger than himself, and who had seen in him Heaven knew what!  He never could look at her without that look first; and only now, after some years of marriage, was he beginning sometimes to do so without this thought next.  But he had not the gift of expression, even in the perpetual matter of his devotion; and perhaps its perpetuity owed something to that very want; at least there was none of the verbal evaporation which comes of too much lovers’ talk.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Mrs. Venables!”

Woodgate groaned.  Was he obliged to appear?  His jaw fell, and his wife’s eyes sparkled.

“Dear, I wouldn’t even have let you know she was here—­you shouldn’t have been interrupted for a single instant—­if Mrs. Venables wasn’t clamoring to see you.  And really I begin to clamor too; for she is full of some mysterious news, which she won’t tell me till you are there to hear it also.  Be an angel, for five minutes!”

Woodgate wiped his pen in his deliberate way.

“Probably one of the girls is engaged,” said he; “if so I hope it’s Sybil.”

“No, Sybil is here too; she doesn’t look a bit engaged, but rather bored, as though she had heard the story several times already, whatever it may be.  They have certainly paid several calls.  Now you look quite nice, so in you come.”

Mrs. Venables, a stout but comely lady, with a bright brown eye, and a face full of character and ability, opened fire upon the vicar as soon as they had shaken hands, while her daughter looked wistfully at the nearest books.

“He is married!” cried Mrs. Venables, beginning in the middle like a modern novelist.

“Indeed?” returned the matter-of-fact clergyman, with equal directness—­“and who is he?”

“Your neighbor and your patron—­Mr. Steel!”

“Married?” repeated Mrs. Woodgate, with tremendous emphasis.  “Mr. Steel?”

“This is news!” declared her husband, as though he had expected none worthy of the name.  And they both demanded further particulars, at which Mrs. Venables shook her expensive bonnet with great relish.