in his nature to be superlative in anything; unless, indeed, he was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of mediocrity.  If there was any one point on which he showed an inclination to be excessive, it was confidence in his own shrewdness and ability in practical matters, so that he was very full of plans which were something like his moves in chess—­admirably well calculated, supposing the state of the case were otherwise.  For example, that notable plan of introducing anti-dissenting books into his Lending Library did not in the least appear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though it had certainly made Dissent strongly inclined to bite the Rev. Amos’s heel.  Again, he vexed the souls of his churchwardens and influential parishioners by his fertile suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in the matter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities.

‘I never saw the like to parsons,’ Mr. Hackit said one day in conversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. Bond; ’they’re al’ys for meddling with business, an they know no more about it than my black filly.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Bond, ‘they’re too high learnt to have much common-sense.’

‘Well,’ remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious tone, as if throwing out a hypothesis which might be considered bold, ’I should say that’s a bad sort of eddication as makes folks onreasonable.’

So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton’s popularity was in that precarious condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slight push from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it.  That push was not long in being given, as you shall hear.

One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial visits, and the sunlight was streaming through the bow-window of the sitting-room, where Milly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the children playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which she at once recognized as the Countess’s, and that well-dressed lady presently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over her face.  Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her; but when the Countess threw up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was both surprised and sorry.

‘What can be the matter, dear Caroline?’

Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp; then she threw her arms round Milly’s neck, and began to sob; then she threw herself on the sofa, and begged for a glass of water; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl; and by the time Milly’s imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up calamities, she said,—­’Dear, how shall I tell you?  I am the most wretched woman.  To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so devoted—­to see him degrading himself—­giving himself utterly to the dogs!’

‘What can it be?’ said Milly, who began to picture to herself the sober Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting.