“How are the peacocks, Alick?” added Mr. Clare; “they, at least, are inoffensive pets.  I dreaded the shears without your superintendence, but Joe insisted that they were getting lop-sided.”

Alick put his head out at the window.  “All right, sir; Joe has been a little hard on the crest of the left-hand one, but it is recovering.”

Whereupon, Rachel discovered that the peacocks were creatures of yew-tree, perched at either end of the garden fence.  Mr. Clare had found them there, and preserved them with solicitous fidelity.

Nothing could be less like than he was to the grave, thin, stooping ascetic in a long coat, that she had expected.  He was a tall, well-made man, of the same youthful cast of figure as his nephew, and a far lighter and more springy step, with features and colouring recalling those of his niece, as did the bright sunny playful sweetness of his manner; his dark handsome eyes only betraying their want of sight by a certain glassy immobility that contrasted with the play of the expressive mouth.  It was hard to guess why Bessie should have shunned such an uncle.  Alick took Rachel to the bedroom above the library, and, like it, with two windows—­one overlooking churchyard, river, and hay-fields, the other commanding, over the peacock hedge, a view of the playground, where Mr. Clare was seen surrounded by boys, appealing to him on some disputed matter of cricket.  There was a wonderful sense of serenity, freshness, and fragrance, inexpressibly grateful to Rachel’s wearied feelings, and far more comfortable than the fine scenery through which she had been carried, because no effort to look and admire was incumbent on her—­ nay, not even an effort to talk all the evening.  Mr. Clare seemed to have perfectly imbibed the idea that rest was what she wanted, and did not try to make small talk with her, though she sat listening with pleased interest to the conversation between him and his nephew —­so home like, so full of perfect understanding of one another.

“Is there anything to be read aloud?” presently asked Alick.

“You have not by chance got ‘Framley Parsonage?’”

“I wish I had.  I did pick up ‘Silas Marner,’ at a station, thinking you might like it,” and he glanced at Rachel, who had, he suspected, thought his purchase an act of weakness.  “Have you met with it?”

“I have met with nothing of the sort since you were here last;” then turning to Rachel, “Alick indulges me with novels, for my good curate had rather read the catalogue of a sale any day than meddle with one, and I can’t set on my pupil teacher in a book where I don’t know what is coming.”

“We will get ‘Framley,’” said Alick.

“Bessie has it.  She read me a very clever scene about a weak young parson bent on pleasing himself; and offered to lend me the book, but I thought it would not edify Will Walker.  But, no doubt, you have read it long ago.”