“Thank you, sir, I’m sure most kindly,” said Mrs. Spruce curtseying two or three times in a voluminous overflow of gratitude.  “I shall take the liberty of asking you to step up during the week, to see how things appears to you yourself.  And as for servants, there’s no gels old enough at the school for servants, so I’ll be goin’ to Riversford with the carrier’s cart to-morrow to see what I can do.  Ah, It’s an awsome mission I’m goin’ on; there ain’t no gels to be got of the old kind, as far as I can make out.  They all wants to be fine leddies nowadays and marry ’Merican millionaires.”

“Not quite so bad as that, I think, Mrs. Spruce!” laughed Walden, holding open the door of the study for her to pass out, as a broad hint that the interview must be considered at an end.—­“There are plenty of good, industrious, intelligent girls in England ready and willing to enter domestic service, if we make it worth their while,- -and I’m sure no one can teach you anything in that line!  Good-morning, Mrs. Spruce!”

“Good-morning, sir,—­and you’ll step up to the Manor when convenient some afternoon?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.  Whenever convenient to yourself, Mrs. Spruce.”

Mrs. Spruce curtseyed again at the respect for her own importance which was implied in Walden’s last sentence, and slowly sidled out, the ‘Passon’ watching her with a smile as she trotted down the passage from his study to a door which led to the kitchen and basement.

“Now she’ll go and tell all her story again to Hester and the cook,” he said to himself; “And how she will enjoy herself to be sure!  Bless the woman, what a tongue she has!  No wonder her husband is deaf!”

He re-seated himself at his desk, and taking up a bundle of accounts connected with the church and the school, tried to fix his attention on them, but in vain.  His mind wandered.  He was obliged to own to himself that he was unreasonably irritated at the news that Abbot’s Manor, which had been so long a sort of unoccupied ‘show’ house, was again to be inhabited,—­and by one who was its rightful owner too.  Ever since he had bought the living of St. Rest he had been accustomed to take many solitary walks through the lovely woods surrounding the Vancourts’ residence, without any fear of being considered a trespasser,—­and he had even strolled through the wide, old-fashioned gardens with as little restraint as though they had belonged to himself, Mrs. Spruce, the housekeeper, being the last person in the world to forbid her minister to enter wherever he would.  He had passed long hours of delightful research in the old library, and many afternoons of meditation in the picture gallery, where the portrait of the lady in the ‘vi’let velvet,’ Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, had often caught his eye and charmed his fancy when the setting sun had illumined its rich colouring and had given life to the face, half-petulant, half-sweet, which pouted forth from the old canvas like a rose