and had, as she forcibly expressed it, ’the Sunday meals on her mind.’  It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by himself, aware that his ‘Missis’ was scrubbing the kitchen, and ’wouldn’t have him muckin’ about,’—­and when John Walden, having finished his notes for the Sunday’s sermon, felt a sense of ease and relief, and considered himself at liberty to study purely Pagan literature, such as The Cratylus of Plato.  But on this special Saturday he was not destined to enjoy complete relaxation.  Mrs. Spruce had sent an urgent appeal to him to ’kindly step up to the Manor in the afternoon.’  And Mrs. Spruce’s husband, a large, lumbering, simple-faced old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Walden’s threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply.  John surveyed his awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness,—­excuses and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an almost deaf man.  Submitting to fate, he nodded his head vigorously, and spoke as loudly as he judged needful.

“All right, Spruce!  Say I’ll come!”

“Jes’ what I told her, sir,” answered Spruce, in a remarkably gentle tone; “It’s a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no ’arm can ’appen, no matter if it’s all the riches of the yearth.”

John felt more helpless than ever.  What was the man talking about?  He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic key.

“Look here, Spruce!  Tell your wife I’ll come after luncheon.  Do you hear?  Af-ter lun-cheon!”

Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly.

“Ezackly, sir!  I quite agrees with ye; but women are allus a bit worrity-like, and of course there’s a deal to do, and she got frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine clothes, and what not,—­so I drawed her a glass of cherry-cordial, an’ sez I, ’Now, old ‘ooman,’ sez I, ’don’t skeer yerself into fits.  I’ll fetch the passon to ye.’  And with that, she seemed easier in her mind.  Lord love ye!—­it’s a great thing to fetch the passon at once when there’s anything a bit wrong.  So, if you’d step up, sir?—­”

Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the old man’s obstinate ear.

“Yes,” he bellowed—­“af-ter lun-cheon!  Yes!  Ye-es!”

His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of Spruce’s brain.

“Thank you, kindly, sir, I’m sure,” he said, still in the same meek and quiet tone.  “And if I might make so bold, sir, seein’ there’s likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should be needful to speak for me and my old ’ooman, p’raps you’d be so good, sir?  We wouldn’t like to leave the old place now, sir—–­”

His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed his hand across his poor dim eyes.  The pathos of this hint was not lost on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary irritation, rose manfully to the occasion and roared down the old man’s ears like one of the far-famed ‘Bulls of Bashan.’