‘The storm is coming at last, and now it will be cooler,’ said Ellen, looking out from the window.  ‘Dear me!’ she added, there stopping short.

‘What?’ asked Alfred.  ‘What are you gaping at?’

‘I declare!’ cried Ellen, ’it’s the new clergyman!  It is Mr. Cope, and he is coming up to the wicket!’

Alfred turned his head with a peevish sound; he was in the dreary mood to resent whatever took off attention from him for a moment.

‘A very pleasant-looking gentleman,’ commented Ellen, ’and so young!  He does not look older than Charles Lawrence!  I wonder whether he is coming in, or if it is only to post a letter.  Oh! there he is, talking to Mother!  There!’

A vivid flash of lightning came over the room at that moment and made them all pause till it was followed up by the deep rumble of the thunder, and then down rushed the rain, plashing and leaping up again, bringing out the delicious scent from the earth, and seeming in one moment to breathe refreshment and relief on the sick boy.  His brow was already clearing, as he listened to his mother’s tones of welcome, as she was evidently asking the stranger to sit down and wait for the storm to be over, and the cheerful voice that replied to her.  He did not scold Ellen for, as usual, making things neat; and whereas, five minutes sooner, he would have hated the notion of any one coming near him, he now only hoped that his mother would bring Mr. Cope up; and presently he heard the well-known creak of the stairs under a manly foot, and his mother’s voice saying something about ‘a great sufferer, Sir.’

Then came in sight his mother’s white cap, and behind her one of the most cheerful lively faces that Alfred had ever beheld.  The new Curate looked very little more than a boy, with a nice round fresh rosy face, and curly brown hair, and a quick joyous eye, and regular white teeth when he smiled that merry good-humoured smile.  Indeed, he was as young as a deacon could be, and he looked younger.  He knocked his tall head against the top of the low doorway as he came into the room, and answered Mrs. King’s apologies with a pleasant laugh.  Ellen knew her mother would like him the better for his height, for no one since the handsome coachman himself had had to bend his head to get into the room.  Alfred liked the looks of him the first moment, and by way of salutation put up one of his weary, white, blue-veined hands to pull his damp forelock; but Mr. Cope, nodding in answer to Ellen’s curtsey, took hold of his hand at once, and softening the cheery voice that was so pleasant to hear, said, ’Well, my boy, I hope we shall be good friends.  And what’s your name?’

‘Alfred King, Sir,’ was the answer.  It really was quite a pleasure not to begin with the old weary subject of being pitied for his illness.

‘King Alfred!’ said Mr. Cope.  ’I met King Harold yesterday.  I’ve got into royal company, it seems!’