Next morning, soon after breakfast, Raby addressed his guests as follows:—­“I was obliged to go into Hillsborough yesterday, and postpone the purification of that sacred building.  But I set a watch on it; and this day I devote to a pious purpose; I’m going to un-Little the church of my forefathers; and you can come with me, if you choose.”  This invitation, however, was given in a tone so gloomy, and so little cordial, that Coventry, courtier-like, said in reply, he felt it would be a painful sight to his host, and the fewer witnesses the better.  Raby nodded assent, and seemed pleased.  Not so Miss Carden.  She said:  “If that is your feeling, you had better stay at home.  I shall go.  I have something to tell Mr. Raby when we get there; and I’m vain enough to think it will make him not quite so angry about the poor dear old church.”

“Then come, by all means,” said Raby; “for I’m angry enough at present.”

Before they got half way to the church, they were hailed from behind:  and turning round, saw the burly figure of Dr. Amboyne coming after them.

They waited for him, and he came up with them.  He had heard the whole business from Little, and was warm in the praises of his patient.

To a dry inquiry from Raby, whether he approved of his patient desecrating a church, he said, with delicious coolness, he thought there was not much harm in that, the church not being used for divine service.

At this, Raby uttered an inarticulate but savage growl; and Grace, to avert a hot discussion, begged the doctor not to go into that question, but to tell her how Mr. Little was.

“Oh, he has received some severe contusions, but there is nothing serious.  He is in good hands, I assure you.  I met him out walking with his nurse; and I must say I never saw a handsomer couple.  He is dark; she is fair.  She is like the ancient statues of Venus, massive and grand, but not clumsy; he is lean and sinewy, as a man ought to be.”

“Oh, doctor, this from you?” said Grace, with undisguised spite.

“Well, it was a concession.  He was leaning on her shoulder, and her face and downcast eyes were turned toward him so sweetly—­said I to myself—­Hum!”

“What!” said Raby.  “Would you marry him to a farmer’s daughter?”

“No; I’d let him marry whom he likes; only, having seen him and his nurse together, it struck me that, between two such fine creatures of the same age, the tender relation of patient and nurse, sanctioned, as I hear it is, by a benevolent uncle—­”

“Confound your impudence!”

“—­Would hardly stop there.  What do you think, Miss Carden?”

“I’ll tell you, if you will promise, on your honor, never to repeat what I say.”  And she slackened her pace, and lingered behind Mr. Raby.

He promised her.

“Then,” she whispered in his ear, “I hate you!”

And her eyes flashed blue fire at him, and startled him.