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“You are welcome, Sir Edward,” said
the venerable rector, as he took the baronet
by the hand; “I was fearful a return of your
rheumatism would deprive us of this pleasure,
and prevent my making you acquainted with
the new occupants of the deanery; who have
consented to dine with us to-day, and to
whom I have promised in particular, an introduction
to Sir Edward Moseley.”

“I thank you, my dear doctor,” rejoined
the baronet, “I have not only come myself,
but have persuaded Mr. Benfield to make
one of the party; there he comes, leaning on
Emily's arm, and finding fault with Mrs.
Wilson's new fashioned barouche, which he
says has given him cold.”

The rector received the unexpected guest
with the kindness of his nature, and an inward
smile at the incongruous assemblage he
was likely to have around him by the arrival
of the Jarvis's, who, at that moment, drove
to his door. The introductions between the
baronet and the new comers had passed, and
Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology
on behalf of the colonel, who was not
yet well enough to come out, but whose politeness
had insisted on their not remaining
at home on his account; as Mr. Benfield,
having composedly put on his spectacles,

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walked deliberately up to where the merchant
had seated himself, and having examined
him through his glasses to his satisfaction,
took them off, and carefully wiping them,
began to talk to himself as he put them into
his pocket—“No, no; it's not Jack, the
hackney coachman, nor my Lord Gosford's
gentleman, but”—cordially holding out both
hands, “it's the man who saved my twenty
thousand pounds.”

Mr. Jarvis, who a kind of shame had
kept silent during this examination, exchanged
his greetings sincerely with his
old acquaintance, who now took a seat
in silence by his side; while his wife, whose
face had begun to kindle with indignation at
the commencement of the old gentleman's soliloquy,
observing that somehow or other it
had not only terminated without degradation
to her spouse, but with something like credit,
turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an
apology for the absence of her son. “I cannot
divine, ma'am where he has got to; he is
ever keeping us waiting for him;” and addressing
Jane, “these military men become
so unsettled in their habits, that I often tell
Harry he should never quit the camp.”

“In Hyde Park, you should add, my dear,
for he has never been in any other,” bluntly
observed her husband. To this speech no
reply was made, but it was evidently not relished
by the ladies of the family, who were
not a little jealous of the laurels of the only

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hero their race had ever produced. The arrival
and introduction of the captain himself,
changed the discourse, which turned on the
comforts of their present residence.

“Pray, my lady,” cried the captain, who
had taken a chair familiarly by the side of the
baronet's wife, “why is the house called the
deanery? I am afraid I shall be taken for a
son of the church, when I invite my friends
to visit my father at the deanery.”

“And you may add, at the same time, sir,
if you please,” dryly remarked Mr. Jarvis,
“that it is occupied by an old man, who has
been preaching and lecturing all his life;
and like others of the trade, I believe, in vain.”

“You must except our good friend, the
doctor here, at least, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson;
and then observing her sister to shrink from
a familiarity she was unused to, she replied
to the captain's question: “The father of
the present Sir William Harris held that station
in the church, and although the house
was his private property, it took its name from
that circumstance, which has been continued
ever since.”

“Is it not a droll life Sir William leads,”
cried Miss Jarvis, looking at John Moseley,
“riding about all summer, from one watering
place to another, and letting his house
year after year in the manner he does?”

“Sir William,” said Dr. Ives gravely, “is
devoted to his daughter's wishes, and since
his accession to his title, has come into

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possession of another residence, in an adjoining
county, which, I believe, he retains in his own
hands.”

“Are you acquainted with Miss Harris?”
continued the lady, addressing herself to
Clara; and without waiting for an answer,
added, “She is a great belle—all the gentlemen
are dying for her.”

“Or her fortune,” said her sister, with a
contemptuous toss of the head; “for my part,
I never could see any thing so captivating in
her, although so much is said about her at
Bath and Brighton.”

“You know her then,” mildly observed
Clara.

“Why, I cannot say—we are exactly acquainted,”
hesitatingly answered the young
lady, and colouring violently as she spoke.

“What do you mean, by exactly acquainted,
Sally?” cried her father with a laugh;
“did you ever speak to, or were you ever in
a room with her in your life, unless it might
be at a concert or a ball?”

The mortification of Miss Sarah was too
evident for concealment, and was happily relieved
by a summons to dinner.

“Never, my dear child,” said Mrs. Wilson
to Emily, the aunt being fond of introducing
a moral, from the occasional incidents
of every-day life, “never subject
yourself to a similar mortification, by commenting
on the character of those you don't
know: your ignorance makes you liable to

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

great errors; and if they should happen to
be above you in life, it will only excite their
contempt, should it reach their ears; while
those to whom your remarks are made, will
think it envy.”

“Truth is sometimes blundered on,” cried
John, who held his sister's arm, waiting for
his aunt to precede them to the dining room.

The merchant paid too great a compliment
to the rector's dinner to think of renewing the
disagreeable conversation, and as John Moseley
and the young clergyman were seated
next the two ladies, they soon forgot what,
among themselves, they would call their father's
rudeness, in receiving the attentions of
a couple of remarkably agreeable young men.

“Pray, Mr. Francis, when do you preach
for us?” asked Mr. Haughton; “I'm very
anxious to hear you hold forth from the pulpit,
where I have so often heard your father
with pleasure: I doubt not you will prove
orthodox, or you will be the only man, I believe,
in the congregation, the rector has left
in ignorance, of the theory of our religion, at
least.”

The doctor bowed to the compliment, as
he replied to the question for his son; that
on the next Sunday, they were to have the
pleasure of hearing Frank, who had promised
to assist him on that day.

“Any prospects of a living soon?” continued
Mr. Haughton, helping himself bountifully
to a piece of plumb pudding as he spoke.

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John Moseley laughed aloud, and Clara
blushed to the eyes, while the doctor, turning
to Sir Edward, observed with an air of interest,
“Sir Edward, the living of Bolton is
vacant, and I should like exceedingly to obtain
it for my son. The advowson belongs
to the Earl, who will dispose of it only to
great interest, I am afraid.”

Clara was certainly too busily occupied in
picking raisins from her pudding, to hear this
remark, but accidentally stole, from under
her long eye-lashes, a timid glance at her father,
as he replied:

“I am sorry, my friend, I have not sufficient
interest with his lordship to apply on
my own account; but he is so seldom here,
we are barely acquainted;” and the good baronet
looked really concerned.

“Clara,” said Francis Ives in a low and
affectionate tone, “have you read the books
I sent you?” Clara answered him with a
smile in the negative, but promised amendment
as soon as she had leisure.

“Do you ride much on horseback, Mr.
Moseley?” abruptly asked Miss Sarah, turning
her back on the young divine, and facing
the gentleman she addressed. John, who
was now hemmed in between the sisters, replied
with a rueful expression, that brought
a smile into the face of Emily, who was
placed opposite to him—

“Yes, ma'am, and sometimes I am ridden.”

“Ridden, sir, what do you mean by that?”

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

“Oh! only my aunt there (he whispered)
gives me a lecture now and then.”

“Oh ho!” said the lady in the same tone,
with a knowing leer, and pointing slily with
her finger at her own father.

“Does it feel good?” said John in the
same manner, and with a look of great sympathy:
but the lady, who now felt awkwardly,
without knowing exactly why, shook her
head in silence as she forced a faint laugh.

“Who have we here?” cried Captain
Jarvis, as he looked through a window which
commanded a view of the approach to the
house—“the apothecary and his attendant,
judging from their equipage.”

The rector threw an inquiring look on a
servant, who told his master they were strangers
to him.

“Have them shown up, doctor,” cried the
benevolent baronet, who loved to see every
one as happy as himself, “and give them
some of your excellent pasty, for the credit of
your cook, I beg of you;” and as this request
was politely seconded by others of the party,
the rector bid them show the strangers in.

On opening the parlour door, a gentleman,
apparently sixty years of age, appeared, leaning
on the arm of a youth of five-and-twenty.
There was sufficient resemblance between
the two, for the most indifferent observer to
pronounce them father and son; but the
helpless debility and emaciated figure of the
former, was finely contrasted by the

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vigorous health and manly beauty of the latter,
who supported his venerable parent into the
room, with a grace and tenderness, that struck
most of the beholders with an indescribable
sensation of pleasure. The doctor and Mrs.
Ives rose from their seats involuntarily, and
stood each for a moment as if lost in an astonishment
that was mingled with grief. Recollecting
himself, the rector grasped the extended
hand of the senior in both his own,
and endeavoured to utter something, but in
vain; the tears followed each other down his
cheeks, as he looked on the faded and careworn
figure which stood before him; while
his wife, unable to control her feelings, sunk
back into a chair and wept aloud.

Throwing open the door of an adjoining
room, and retaining the hand of the invalid,
the doctor gently led the way, followed by
his wife and son; the former having recovered
from the first burst of her sorrow, and
who now, regardless of every thing else,
anxiously watched the enfeebled step of the
stranger. On reaching the door, they both
turned and bowed to the company in a manner
of much dignity, mingled with sweetness,
that all, not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from
their seats to return the salutation. On passing
from the dining parlour, the door was
closed, leaving the company standing round
the table, in mute astonishment and commiseration,
at the scene they had just witnessed.
Not a word had been spoken, and

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the rector's family had left them without apology
or explanation. Francis, however, soon
returned, and was followed in a few minutes
by his mother, who, slightly apologising for
her absence, turned the discourse on the approaching
Sunday, and the intention of Francis
to preach on that day. The Moseleys
were too well bred to make any inquiries, and
the Deanery family appeared afraid. Sir Edward
retired at a very early hour, and was
followed by the remainder of the party.

“Well,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, as they drove
from the door, “this may be good breeding,
but for my part, I think both the doctor and
Mrs. Ives behaved very rude, with their crying
and sobbing.”

“They are nobody of much consequence,”
cried her eldest daughter, casting a contemptuous
glance on a plain travelling chaise
which stood before the rector's stables.

“'T was sickening,” said Miss Sarah, with
a shrug; while her father, turning his eyes
on each speaker in succession, very deliberately
helped himself to a pinch of snuff, his
ordinary recourse against a family quarrel.
The curiosity of the ladies was, however,
more lively than they chose to avow; and
Mrs. Jarvis bade her maid go over to the Rectory
that evening, with her compliments to
Mrs. Ives; she had lost a lace veil, which
her maid knew, and thought she might have
left it at the Rectory.

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“And Jones, when you are there, you can
inquire of the servants; mind, of the servants—
I would not distress Mrs. Ives for the
world; how Mr.—Mr.—what's his name—
Lud—I have forgotten his name; just bring
me his name too, Jones; and it may make
some difference in our party, so just find out
how long they stay; and—and—any other
little thing Jones, which can be of use, you
know.” Off went Jones, and within an hour
returned again. With an important look,
she commenced her narrative, the daughters
being accidentally present.

“Why ma'am, I went across the fields, and
William was good enough to go with me; so
when we got there, I rung, and they showed
us into the servants' room, and I gave my
message, and the veil was not there. Lord,
ma'am, there's the veil now, on the back o'
that chair.”—“Very well, very well, Jones,
never mind the veil,” cried her impatient mistress.

“So, madam, while they were looking for
the veil. I just asked one of the maids, what
company had arrived, but”—(here Jones looked
very suspiciously, and shook her head significantly:)
“would you think it, ma'am, not
a soul of them knew. But, ma'am, there was
the doctor and his son, praying and reading
with the old gentleman the whole time—
and”—

“And what, Jones?”

“Why, ma'am, I expect he has been a great

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sinner, or he would'nt want so much praying
just as he is about to die.”

“Die!” cried all three at once, “will he
die?”

“O yes,” continued Jones, “they all
agree he must die; but this praying so much,
is just like the criminals; I'm sure no honest
person needs so much praying ma'am.”

“No, indeed,” said the mother: “no, indeed,”
responded the daughters, as they retired
to their several rooms for the night.

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