“I rather wonder you go at all, George,” returned his wife.  “Year after year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will not go to another.”

“I know it, Mary.  I dislike the drinking that goes on—­and the free conversation—­and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it all.”

“And the Captain’s contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add.”

“Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening’s programme.”

“Then, George, why do you go?”

“Well, I think you know why.  I do not like to refuse the invitation; it would only increase Captain Monk’s animosity and widen still further the breach between us.  As patron he holds so much in his power.  Besides that, my presence at the table does act, I believe, as a mild restraint on some of them, keeping the drinking and the language somewhat within bounds.  Yes, I suppose my duty lies in going.  But I shall not stay late, Mary,” added the parson, bending to look at the suffering child; “and if you see any real necessity for the doctor to be called in to-night, I will go for him.”

“Dood-bye, pa-pa,” lisped the little four-year-old maiden.

He kissed the little hot face, said adieu to his wife and went out, hoping that the child would recover without the doctor; for the living of Church Leet was but a poor one, though the parsonage house was so handsome.  It was a hundred-and-sixty pounds a year, for which sum the tithes had been compounded, and Mr. West had not much money to spare for superfluities—­especially as he had to substantially help his mother.

The twilight had deepened almost to night, and the lights in the mansion seemed to smile a cheerful welcome as he approached it.  The pillared entrance, ascended to by broad steps, stood in the middle, and a raised terrace of stone ran along before the windows on either side.  It was quite true that every year at the conclusion of these feasts, the Vicar resolved never to attend another; but he was essentially a man of peace, striving ever to lay oil upon troubled waters, after the example left by his Master.

Dinner.  The board was full.  Captain Monk presided, genial to-day; genial even to the parson.  Squire Todhetley faced the Captain at the foot; Mr. West sat at the Squire’s right hand, between him and Farmer Threpp, a quiet man and supposed to be a very substantial one.  All went on pleasantly; but when the elaborate dinner gave place to dessert and wine-drinking, the company became rather noisy.

“I think it’s about time you left us,” cried the Squire by-and-by to young Hubert, who sat next him on the other side:  and over and over again Mr. Todhetley has repeated to us in later years the very words that passed.

“By George, yes!” put in a bluff and hearty fox-hunter, the master of the hounds, bending forward to look at the lad, for he was in a line with him, and breaking short off an anecdote he was regaling the company with.  “I forgot you were there, Master Hubert.  Quite time you went to bed.”