“I shall be sure to do that, I think.  As soon, at least, as I can feel convinced that it is to be really mine,” he added, with a quaint expression.  “When I heard, a week ago, that Captain Monk had presented me—­an entire stranger to him—­with the living of Church Leet, I could not believe it.  It is not often that a nameless curate, without influence, is spontaneously remembered.”

“It is not much of a living,” said Lucy, meeting the words half jestingly.  “Worth, I believe, but about a hundred and sixty pounds a-year.”

“But that is a great rise for me—­and I have a house to myself large and beautiful—­and am a Vicar and no longer a curate,” he returned, laughingly.  “I cannot imagine, though, how Captain Monk came to give it me.  Have you any idea how it was, Miss Carradyne?”

Lucy’s face flushed.  She could not tell this gentleman the truth:  that another clergyman had been fixed upon, one who would have been especially welcome to the parishioners; that Captain Monk had all but nominated him to the living.  But it chanced to reach the Captain’s ears that this clergyman had expressed his intention of holding the Communion Service monthly, instead of quarterly as heretofore, so he put the question to him.  Finding it to be true, he withdrew his promise; he would not have old customs broken in upon by modern innovation, he said; and forthwith he appointed the Reverend Robert Grame.

“I do not even know how Captain Monk heard of me,” continued Mr. Grame, marking Lucy’s hesitation.

“I believe you were recommended to him by one of the clergy attached to Worcester Cathedral,” said Lucy.—­“And I think I must wish you good-morning now.”

But there came an interruption.  A tall, stately, haughty young woman, with an angry look upon her dark and handsome face, had entered the churchyard, and was calling out as she advanced: 

“That monkey broken loose again, I suppose, and at her pranks here!  What are you good for, Lucy, if you cannot keep her in better order?  You know I told you to go straight on to Mrs. Speck, and—­”

The words died away.  Mr. Grame, who had been hidden by a large upright tombstone, emerged into view.  Lucy, with another blush, spoke to cover the awkwardness.

“This is Miss Monk,” she said to him.  “Eliza, it is the new clergyman, Mr. Grame.”

Miss Monk recovered her equanimity.  A winning smile supplanted the anger on her face; she held out her hand, grandly gracious.  For she liked the stranger’s look:  he was beyond doubt a gentleman—­and an attractive man.

“Allow me to welcome you to Church Leet, Mr. Grame.  My father chances to be absent to-day; he is gone to Evesham.”

“So the clerk told me, or I should have called this morning to pay my respects to him, and to thank him for his generous and most unexpected patronage of me.  I got here last night,” concluded Mr. Grame, standing uncovered as when he had saluted Lucy.  Eliza Monk liked his pleasant voice, his taking manners:  her fancy went out to him there and then.