Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with his own garden, opened it, and passed through.  Nebbie was waiting for him on the lawn, and greeted him with the usual effusiveness.  He returned to his desk, and to the composition of his sermon, but his thoughts were inclined to wander.  Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of the ‘Savage and Savile.’  Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide.  And ever and again Sir Morton Pippitt’s coarse chuckle, combined with the covert smiles of Sir Morton’s ‘distinguished’ friends, echoed through his mind in connection with the approaching dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy quietude of the village of St. Rest, till he experienced a sense of pain and aversion almost amounting to anger.  Why, he asked himself, seeing she had stayed so long away from her childhood’s home, could she not have stayed away altogether?  The swift and brilliant life of London was surely far more suited to one who, according to ‘Putty’ Leveson, was ‘rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock.’  But was ‘Putty’ Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements?  No!  Certainly not—­yet—­”

Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, for he erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and altered his text, which had been:  “Glory, honour and peace to every man that worketh good.”  And in its place he chose, as a more enticing subject of discourse: 

“The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God, of great price.”

V

The warm bright weather continued.  Morning after morning dawned in unclouded sunshine, and when Saturday concluded the first five days of the ‘May-moneth,’ the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to concede that it was just possible they might have what they called ‘a spell of fair weather.’  Saturday was the general ’cleaning-up day’ in the village—­the day when pails of water were set out in unexpected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of too-hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently squirted at with the aid of garden-syringes and hose,—­and when Adam Frost, the sexton, was always to be found meditating, and even surreptitiously drinking beer, in a quiet corner of the churchyard, because he was afraid to go home, owing to the persistent housewifely energy of his better half, who ‘washed down’ everything, ‘cleaned out’ everything,