It amused Mr. Ketchum not a little to see the way in which the baronet conducted his devotions,—­his preliminary prayer in his silk hat, from which streamed a halo of side-whiskers, the heartiness with which he joined in the service, especially the way in which, avoiding all the compromises the male American practises in prayer-time (such as bending forward a little, or leaning back pensively with the hand shading the face), he plumped squarely down on his knees, turned up a pair of shoes half as long as his very respectable, tightly-rolled umbrella, and made his responses in a clear, audible voice, like an honest gentleman and a miserable sinner.

It did not escape Mr. Ketchum’s keen eyes, either, that although Sir Robert contributed a five-dollar bill to the offertory, he first rolled it up into a tiny, unrecognizable wad before dropping it into the alms-basin.  The service over, Sir Robert and the eminent divine were made acquainted.  The latter said he would call as soon as he could snatch a moment, and Sir Robert, his hands folded behind his back, holding his hat and gloves, made the rounds of the church, inspecting every bit of carving, frescoing, glass, and brass, and making the most intelligent criticisms upon what he saw to Miss Noel in a whisper.  Mrs. Sykes sat still in the pew, fuming at being “let in for a charity sermon,” for some inexplicable reason, seeing she had given nothing to the charity.  Miss Noel was stopped at the door by no less a person than Captain Kendall, who had suddenly discovered that he had a great-aunt living in Kalsing, whom he must see, and now stood there saying, “Where is Miss Ethel?  How is it that you are here without her?  I hope she is quite well.”

“My niece, Miss Heathcote, is quite well, thanks, and has gone to church elsewhere,” said Miss Noel, with dignity, intending to mildly repress a young gentleman whom she thought a little too free with his “Miss Ethels.”

“Then I will have the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow,” said Captain Kendall, unabashed and joyous, as he walked away.

So active an intelligence as Sir Robert’s requires plenty of food, and when Mrs. Ketchum senior issued from her room about ten the next morning, whom should she meet in the hall but the baronet in a state of the most overflowing energy and brilliant good humor, dressed in a suit of striped red-and-white “pajamas,” having on his head a paper cap, under his arm a roll of designs, and in his mind the delightful intention of painting the ceiling of Mabel’s boudoir!

“Good-morning, madam.  Here we are,” he said, shaking his box of paints and stencils at her.  “I have improvised a scaffolding, and am now going to work on my outlines.  I planned the whole thing in bed last night, and, unless I am much mistaken, we are going to have the prettiest boudoir in this part of the country.  I shall do a panel or two to get the effect, and any workman can finish it.”

“But can you do it?” asked Mrs. Ketchum, amazed, but interested.