These things had his daughter watched with her intent dark eyes; Constance Bride did not feel kindly disposed towards the Church of England as by law established.  She had seen her mother sink under penury and humiliation and all unmerited hardship; she had seen her father changed from a vigorous, hopeful, kindly man to an embittered pessimist.  As for herself, sound health and a good endowment of brains enabled her to make a way in the world.  Luckily, she was a sole child:  her father managed to give her a decent education till she was old enough to live by teaching.  But teaching was not her vocation.  Looking round for possibilities, Constance hit upon the idea of studying pharmaceutics and becoming a dispenser; wherein, with long, steady effort, she at length succeeded.  This project had already been shaped whilst the Brides were at Alverholme; Mrs. Lashmar had since heard of Constance as employed in the dispensary of a midland hospital.

“Hollingford?” remarked the vicar, as they walked on.  “I think I remember that you have relatives there.”

“I was born there, and I have an old aunt still living in the town—­she keeps a little baker’s shop.”

Mr. Lashmar, though a philosopher, was not used to this bluntness of revelation; it gave him a slight shock, evinced in a troublous rolling of the eyes.

“Ha! yes!—­I trust you will dine with us this evening, Miss Bride?”

“Thank you, I can’t dine; I want to leave by an early evening train.  But I should like to see Mrs. Lashmar, if she is at home.”

“She will be delighted.  I must beg you to pardon me for leaving you—­an appointment at the schools; but I will get home as soon as possible.  Pray excuse me.”

“Why, of course, Mr. Lashmar.  I haven’t forgotten the way to the vicarage.”

She pursued it, and in a few minutes rang the bell.  Mrs. Lashmar was in the dining-room, busy with a female parishioner whose self-will in the treatment of infants’ maladies had given the vicar’s wife a great deal of trouble.

“It’s as plain as blessed daylight, mum,” the woman was exclaiming, “that this medicine don’t agree with her.”

“Mrs. Dibbs,” broke in the other severely, “you will allow me to be a better judge—­what is it?”

The housemaid had opened the door to announce Miss Bride.

“Miss Bride?” echoed the lady in astonishment.  “Very well; show her into the drawing-room.”

The visitor waited for nearly a quarter of an hour.  She had placed herself on one of the least comfortable chairs, and sat there in a very stiff attitude, holding her umbrella across her knees.  After a rather nervous survey of the room, (it had changed very little in appearance since her last visit six years ago), she fell into uneasy thoughtfulness, now and then looking impatiently towards the door.  When the hostess at length appeared, she rose with deliberation, her lips just relaxed in a half-smile.