“That may well be,” assented Mr. Grame.

“And finding, sir, year after year, year after year, as one year gives place to another, that they are never heard, we have got to call ’em amid ourselves, the Silent Chimes,” spoke the clerk, as they turned to leave the church.  “The Silent Chimes, sir.”

Clinking his keys, the clerk walked away to his home, an ivy-covered cottage not a stone’s-throw off; the clergyman lingered in the churchyard, reading the memorials on the tombstones.  He was smiling at the quaintness of some of them, when the sound of hasty footsteps caused him to turn.  A little girl was climbing over the churchyard-railings (as being nearer to her than the entrance-gate), and came dashing towards him across the gravestones.

“Are you grandpapa’s new parson?” asked the young lady; a pretty child of ten, with a dark skin, and dusky-violet eyes staring at him freely out of a saucy face.

“Yes, I am,” said he.  “What is your name?”

“What is yours?” boldly questioned she.  “They’ve talked about you at home, but I forgot it.”

“Mine is Robert Grame.  Won’t you tell me yours?”

“Oh, it’s Kate.—­Here’s that wicked Lucy coming!  She’s going to groan at me for jumping here.  She says it’s not reverent.”

A charming young lady of some twenty years was coming up the path.  She wore a scarlet cloak, its hood lined with white silk; a straw hat shaded her fair face, blushing very much just now; in her dark-grey eyes might be read vexation, as she addressed Mr. Grame.

“I hope Kate has not been rude?  I hope you will excuse her heedlessness in this place.  She is but a little girl.”

“It’s only the new parson, Lucy,” broke in Kate without ceremony.  “He says his name’s Robert Grame.”

“Oh, Kate, don’t!  How shall we ever teach you manners?” reprimanded the young lady in much distress.  “She has been greatly indulged, sir,” turning to the clergyman.

“I can well understand that,” he said, with a bright smile.  “I presume that I have the honour of speaking to the daughter of my patron—­Captain Monk?”

“No; Captain Monk is my uncle:  I am Lucy Carradyne.”

As the young clergyman stood, hat in hand, a feeling came over him that he had never seen so sweet a face as the one he was looking at.  Miss Lucy Carradyne was saying to herself, “What a nice countenance he has!  What kindly, earnest eyes!”

“This little lady tells me her name is Kate.”

“Kate Dancox,” said Lucy, as the child danced away.  “Her mamma was Captain Monk’s eldest daughter; she died when Kate was born.  My uncle is very fond of Kate; he will hardly have her controlled at all.”

“I have been in to see my church!  John Cale has been doing its honours for me,” smiled Mr. Grame.  “It is a pretty little edifice.”

“Yes, and I hope you will like it; I hope you will like the parish,” frankly returned Lucy.