And yet a spirit still, and bright
     With something of an angel light.

The lawyer went up to him before he came near and hissed at his friend, “What about our compact?” to which the dominie, with a fierce cheerfulness, replied, “It is broken, sir; shivered to atoms; buried in oblivion.  When a so-called honourable man takes a young lady walking in garden and meadow alone, and breathes soft trifles in her ear, the letter, the spirit, the whole periphery of the compact is gone.  Your conduct, sir, leaves me free to act as I please towards the world’s chief soul and radiancy.  I shall do as I please, sir; I shall read Louisa and Ruth and Laodamia and the Female Vagrant, none daring to make me afraid.  A single tress of ebon hair, a single beam of a dove-like eye, shall be enough to fortify my heart against all your legal lore, your scorn, your innuendos, your coward threats.”

“Wilks, you’re intoxicated.”

“Such intoxication as mine is that of the soul—­a thing to glory in.”

“Well, go and glory, and read what you please; only add the Idiot Boy to the Female Vagrant and you’ll be a lovely pair.  I’m going to do as I please, too, so we’re both happy at last.”

Thus saying, the lawyer returned to Marjorie, while the dominie stood stock still in the road, like a man thunderstruck, repeating:  “The Idiot Boy, the Female Vagrant, a pair?—­and he was once my friend!  A pair, a pair—­the Female Vagrant, the Idiot Boy!—­and that slimy, crawling, sickening caterpillar of a garden slug was once known to me!  Truly, a strange awaking!”

It was now six o’clock, the time under ordinary circumstances for tea; but the circumstances were extraordinary, as the Squire, Mr. Nash and the minister had to be waited for.  The party was in the road waiting for them.  “Look, Eugene!” cried Marjorie; “there’s Muggins.  Here Muggy, Muggy, good doggie!” Muggins came on at full speed, and, striding at a very respectable pace, his master followed.

“Ow, Mr. Coristine, sow glad to see you again, I’m shore.  I was delighted to see you bringing two straye sheep into the true fowld this morning.  I howpe Miss Marjorie will turn out a good churchwoman; woun’t you now, Marjorie?”

“I’m not a woman, and I won’t be one.  A woman wears dirty clothes and a check apron and a sun-bonnet.  We’ve had a charwoman like that in our house, and a washerwoman; and in Collingwood there’s a fish-woman and an apple-woman.  I’ve seen them with my very own eyes.  I don’t think it a bit nice of you, Mr. Brown, to call me a charwoman.”

“I said churchwoman, my dear, not charwoman.”

“It’s the same thing; they scrub out churches.  I’ve seen them do it.  And they’re as old and ugly—­worse than Tryphena!”

“Hush, hush, Marjorie!” interposed Miss Du Plessis; “you must not speak like that of good Tryphena.  Besides, Mr. Perrowne means by a churchwoman one who is like me, and goes to the Church of England.”