This was a new epoch in Dorothy's life. She employed every spare moment in mastering the difficulties of the science, and enchanted old Piper with the attention she gave to his prosaical instructions. "Her face," he said, "might make a fortune, but her voice was sure to do it. He was no great judge of beauty, had never courted a woman in his life, and was too old to think of it now. But he was a judge of music, and he was pretty sure that she could not fail in that."

Mr. Rushmere did not approve of this new encroachment on what he considered his natural right in Dorothy; though for some months he was kept in profound ignorance of the turn her studies had taken, and even when he at last made the discovery, he was not aware that Lord Wilton was the delinquent that had robbed him of her time. Lord Wilton had furnished Dorothy with money to pay for the hire of a girl, to take charge of the coarser domestic drudgery; still Lawrence Rushmere grumbled and was not satisfied. He wondered where and how the girl obtained her funds, and whether she came honestly by them. Mrs. Rushmere, who was in the secret—for Dorothy kept nothing from her—told him "that it was part of the salary paid by the Earl to Dorothy for teaching in the Sunday school." This was the truth; "and that he ought, instead of constantly finding fault with the poor girl, to rejoice in her good fortune. Dorothy was growing more like a lady every day, and was so good and clever that he should consider her a credit to the house."

"I thought a deal more on her," quoth the old man, "when she was dressed in homespun and was not above her business. Those silly people are making a fule o' the girl, turning her head with vanity and conceit. Wife, you can't make a purse out o' a sow's ear, or a real lady out o' one not born a lady. They are spoiling the girl an' quite unfitting her for an honest labourer's wife."

At this moment the object under dispute came tripping into the room, dressed in a simple muslin gown with a neat coarse straw bonnet tied closely under her soft round chin. Mrs. Rushmere glanced up at the lovely smiling girl, so graceful in all her movements, so artless and winning in her unaffected simplicity, and quite realized her husband's idea, that she was not fit for a ploughman's help-mate.

"Well, Doll, lass, what's up at the parsonage?" cried the farmer. "Your face is all of a glow and brimful of summat."

"Our old vicar is dead, father; Mr. Martin has just got the news."

"Bless my soul, Mr. Conyers gone? Why he be a young man to me," and he pushed his hands through his gray locks. "What did a' die of, lass?"

"Apoplexy—it was quite sudden. He had just eaten a hearty dinner, when he fell down in a fit, and never spoke again."

"Ah, them parsons generally die o' that. They be great yeaters, and the stomach, they do say, affects the head. It seems like putting the cart afore the horse, don't it, dame?"

"I ran up to tell you," continued Dorothy, "that Mrs. Martin sends her best compliments to you, father, and would esteem it a great favour if you would allow me to stay all day at the parsonage, to help her prepare rooms for the use of the new vicar, who is going to board with her, and is expected down to-night."

"Whew," cried Rushmere, snapping his fingers. "I think Mrs. Martin had better keep you altogether. She's a clever woman to make use of other people's servants. I have a great mind to send you back to tell her that I won't let you go."

Dorothy was silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best policy never to answer her father in these moods. Left to himself his better nature generally prevailed.

"And who be the new vicar, Dolly?" asked her mother, who seldom failed in getting her adopted child out of these scrapes, by diverting her husband's attention to another object.

"Mr. Gerard Fitzmorris, a first cousin of my lord's."

"I knew his father," said Rushmere, "when he was raising a regiment here, to fight the rebels in Ireland. He was a bad man. A drunkard an' a gambler, and got killed in a duel. His wife ran away with another officer. He followed them to France, challenged her seducer, an' got the worst of it. His death was no loss to the world, or to his family. So, so, this is his son. Poor stuff to make a man o' God out on' one would think."

"Children do not always inherit their parents' vices," suggested Mrs. Rushmere.

"It would be bad for the world if they did. But somehow I ha' found that they often bear a strong family likeness," muttered the farmer.

"Well, girl, an' when do the new parson commence his work?"

"He will read himself in next Sunday morning. Mr. Martin says that he is an excellent preacher, and a real Christian. Not one made so by education, and from having been born and brought up in a Christian land, but from conversion, and an earnest desire to be of use in the church."

"Humph," said Rushmere, "this is the way they generally cant about every new parson. In a little while, they find out that these converted sinners are no better nor the rest on us, only they think themselves more godly. And you girl, don't you go to pull long faces and cant like them. It is not by words but by deeds, that a man will be justified at the last."

"Both would prove insufficient, father," suggested Dorothy, "without the grace of God. If men could save themselves, our blessed Lord's death was a useless sacrifice."

"Oh in course, you know better nor me, Dolly. If you go on at this rate, you'll be able to teach parson his duty."

Dorothy laughed, and seeing him once more in a good humour again, put in her plea, of helping Mrs. Martin prepare for her guest. "If not a good act, it would be a neighbourly one," she said, "I will be back in time father, to get your supper."

"But don't let these pious folk spoil you, lass. Dorothy Chance will soon be too great a lady, wi' her musical nonsense and book larning, to step across father Rushmere's threshold."

Dolly ran back and kissed the old man.

"What's that for, Doll?" and the yeoman laughed and opened his eyes wide.

"For calling yourself my father. You have not spoken of me as your child for so long. I thought you meant to disown me altogether."

Dorothy looked so sweetly and spoke so pleasantly, that the old man's anger vanished in her smile.

"Go thy ways, Dolly, thou art a good wench. I love thee well, and thou know'st it. If I be crusty, it's no new thing to thee, who know'st my nature far better, nor I do mysel'. Like old Pincher, my bark is a great deal worse nor my bite."

CHAPTER VI.

"Now, Dorothy, which do you think will be the best room to give Mr. Fitzmorris for his study? The one over the parlour that looks to the south, and has such a nice view of Lord Wilton's plantations, or the east chamber, which has such a fine prospect of the sea? Men are always fond of the sea."

"It looks bleak and cold over that long dreary stretch of flat salt marshes," said Dorothy, examining the landscape from both windows with a critical eye. "I think he will prefer the sunny room that looks to the south. I know I should."

"We can but change it, Dorothy, if it should not be to his taste. But I have thought of another difficulty, which cannot be so easily remedied. What of the piano?" and she turned an anxious eye on Dorothy. "How will he be able to write his sermons with the eternal thumping of the children on the instrument? It will be enough to drive a nervous man from the house."

"How, indeed?" said Dorothy. "We must move the piano."

"But where?"

"To the Farm."

"By no means. You provoking little puss! It is the only handsome piece of furniture in the house."

"We can place it in the dining-room, and only practice when he is absent on parish business. If he is such a good, kind man as he is represented, he will do all in his power to accommodate the females of the household."

"We will try that plan. But what about the noise of the children?"

"The children are very quiet, and always do as they are bid. I am sure no reasonable person can find fault with them."

The women chatted and worked on merrily, and before the church bell tolled six, the south room was arranged entirely to their own satisfaction. The windows were draped in snowy white, the casements shone clear as the air, and tables, and chairs, and book-stands had received an extra polish from the indefatigable hands of Dorothy, and she commenced the arrangement of two large boxes of books that had arrived by the London carrier, in the cases which had been forwarded for their reception.

This last labour of love she performed very slowly, stopping to peep into every volume as she dusted it. The Latin and Greek authors were quickly disposed of, and the huge tomes of divinity scarcely attracted any notice, but some fine works on botany and natural history chained her attention. The plates were so beautiful that, in spite of sundry implied remonstrances from Mrs. Martin, who was fidgetty lest the vicar should arrive before all was completed, she could not resist the temptation of looking at them, and even called in Harry and little Johnnie to share her delight.

"I like the lions best," said little Johnnie. "I don't care for that big pussie-cat with the green eyes and the long tail. It looks as if it could scratch," and he put his fat fingers vigorously down upon the Bengal tiger.

"Yes, and eat you afterwards," said Harry. "I don't like lions and tigers. I love these beautiful flowers, they make me think of the angels, they look so pure and lovely, and darling Dorothy loves them too," and he leaned his head back upon Dorothy's white arm, and looked earnestly up into her smiling face. Dorothy pressed the little curly head fondly against her breast.

"Harry, we will get Mr. Fitzmorris to tell us all about the pretty flowers; I don't know our favourites with these hard names. Flowers are among God's best gifts to man. They have wonderful secrets of their own, and, besides the innocent pleasure they give to every true heart, possess in themselves a remedy for almost every disease. That reminds me that I have yet to fill the china vase for the table. Come and help me, Harry, for your tastes and mine always agree."

The two happy children, for Dorothy was still a child in heart, ran down into the garden, hand in hand, and soon selected a splendid bouquet of sweet spring blossoms, which Dorothy grouped with artistic taste, and left in the centre of the table. A beautiful object, which put the finishing touch to the exquisitely neat adornments of the small apartment. She did not wait for the arrival of its future occupant, but took her way home through the lonely lane that wound round the heath to the Farm.

"I wonder what sort of a man he is?" said Dorothy, thinking of the new vicar, "whether he be old or young, plain or good-looking. If he resembles the Earl, I cannot fail to like him. Lord Wilton, though getting up in years, is the most interesting and the handsomest man I have ever seen."

Her speculations were abruptly dispelled, by a large Newfoundland dog brushing past her, and she looked up and blushed to find herself face to face with a strange gentleman, whose clerical dress left no doubts in her mind as to his identity.

The person she was thinking about was before her.

He was a man of middle stature, not stout, but with a strong muscular frame and the unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, who stopping directly in her path, asked in a very unromantic and practical manner, "if he was in the right road that led to the parsonage?"

Dorothy answered with some confusion, as if she suspected that the stranger had read her thoughts.

"That the next turn in the lane would bring him in sight of the house."

With a brief "Thank you," Mr. Fitzmorris raised his hat, and passed on.

Dorothy was dreadfully disappointed. Was this the man for whom she had arranged that beautiful vase of flowers? Judging from appearances, he would be more likely to throw them out of the window as a nuisance, than see anything to admire in them. What a different person he was to the picture she had drawn of him in her mind! He did not resemble the Earl in the least. He was not handsome. His features were strongly marked and even stern for his age, for he could not have counted more than thirty years, if indeed he were as old.

His complexion was coldly fair, the blue tints predominating over the red, which gave a general pallor to his face not at all relieved by the flaxen hair that curled in short masses round his ample forehead. His eyebrows of the same colour, were strongly defined and rather bushy, beneath which flashed out glances of keen intelligence, from a pair of large eyes, vividly blue—they were remarkable eyes, which seemed to look you through at a glance, and which once seen, could not easily be forgotten.

He took no particular notice of Dorothy, and scarcely waited for her answer to his abrupt inquiry.

"I don't think I shall like him at all," said Dorothy, her natural vanity rather piqued by his nonchalance. "He looks clever, but proud and stern. A poor substitute, I fear, for our dear Henry Martin, with his large heart and gentle benevolence. Mr. Fitzmorris looks as if he could fight with other weapons than the sword of the spirit," and Dorothy closed the farm gate very emphatically behind her.

"Well, Dorothy, what of our new vicar?" asked Mrs. Rushmere, like most old folks eager for the news. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes," replied Dorothy, with a tone of great indifference.

"And what is he like?"

"No one I have ever seen."

"Is he handsome?"

"Decidedly not."

"Is he clever?"

"He looks intelligent, but I can't tell, I only saw him for a moment. He stopped me in the lane to inquire his way to the parsonage; I should scarcely know him again."

Dorothy tripped off to her own chamber, to avoid further questions, and to take off her muslin dress, and substitute a more homely garb in which to cook Mr. Rushmere's supper.

The next morning was the day for receiving her music lesson. Dorothy felt very much disinclined to walk to the parsonage to take it; though she knew that old Piper would be raging mad at her want of punctuality. She had no wish to encounter Mr. Fitzmorris, or meet again the keen glance of his wonderful eyes. It was evident that he considered her a very inferior person, and Dorothy's pride had progressed with her education, and she began to feel that she was not undeserving of a certain degree of respect from persons who might happen to move in a higher class than her own.

Not being able to frame a plausible excuse for her absence from the cottage, she was compelled to put on her bonnet, and dare the ordeal she so much dreaded.

It was a lovely morning in the middle of May, and she gathered some branches of hawthorn in full blossom for the children as she went along.

On coming up to the small white gate, that opened into the lawn fronting the parsonage, she saw Mr. Fitzmorris seated on the grass, under the shade of the tall bowering sycamore tree that grew in the centre of it, with all the little ones gathered about him, laughing and romping with them to their hearts' content, his laugh as loud, and his voice as merry and joyous as the rest.

Could this be the cold, proud looking man she met in the lane last night? His hat lay tossed at a distance upon the grass, the noble head was bare, and wee Mary was sticking bluebells and cowslips among the fair curls that clustered over it. A glow was on the pale face, and the eyes sparkled and danced with pleasure.

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" screamed all the little voices at once. "Here comes our dear Dorothy! Do come and play with us under the tree."

Dorothy smiled and shook her head at them, and almost ran into the house.

"And who is your dear Dorothy, Harry?" asked Mr. Fitzmorris, looking after the pretty apparition as it vanished.

"Oh, she's such a darling, next to papa and mamma, I love her better than anything in the world," said Harry with enthusiasm, "and I know she loves me."

"I'm sure, Harry, we all love her as much as you do," said Rosina. "But you always want to keep Dolly all to yourself. She does not love you a bit more than she does me and Johnnie."

"That she don't," cried Johnnie. "She loves me more than you all, for I sit on her lap while she tells us pretty stories, and Harry's too old to do that."

"I should rather think so," said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing and looking at Harry, a tall boy of nine years. "I think Johnnie's plea is the best. At any rate, he contrives to get nearest to the young lady's heart. But why are you all so fond of her? Do you love her for her pretty face?"

"Not for that alone," returned Harry. "But she is so kind, she never says or does a cross thing, and always tries to make us happy."

"Then she deserves all the love you can give her. It is a blessed thing to try and make others happy."

Just at that moment the grand notes of the old hundredth floated forth upon the breeze, and became a living harmony, accompanied by Dorothy's delicious voice. Mr. Fitzmorris rose to his feet, and stood with uncovered head: the smile that had recently played upon his lips giving place to an expression of rapt devotion, as if his whole heart and soul were wafted towards heaven in those notes of praise.

"It is Dorothy who is singing. She sings in our choir," said Harry.

"Hush," returned the vicar, placing his finger on his lip. "We are 'before Jehovah's awful throne.' Wherever you hear that name mentioned, you are upon holy ground."

The boy drew back awe-struck, and for the first time in his young life, realized the eternal presence of God in the universe.

After Dorothy's lessons were over, Mr. Fitzmorris asked Mrs. Martin to introduce him to her young friend.

"I hope you are not vain of that fine voice?" he said, taking a seat beside her.

"Why should I be? I can hardly call it mine, for I had no choice in the matter. It was a free gift."

Mr. Fitzmorris regarded the youthful speaker with a look of surprise. For the first time it struck him forcibly that her face was very beautiful, while its earnest, truthful expression conveyed the more pleasing impression that it was one of great integrity.

"A free gift," he said, repeating unconsciously her words. "To be used freely, I hope, in the service of the glorious Giver, and not as a means of obtaining the applause and admiration of the world?"

"Not very likely, sir. My world is confined to a small sphere. It was only the other day that I found out that I had a voice worthy of being used in the choir. I used to sing to please my father, and to lighten my labour when at work in the field."

"At work in the field!" and Mr. Fitzmorris glanced at the elegant form and taper fingers. "What business had you working in the fields?"

"I am poor and dependent," said Dorothy, laughing, though she felt a great awe of her interrogator; "and the children of poverty are seldom allowed the privilege of choosing their own employments."

"But your appearance, Miss Chance, your language, even the manner of your singing, seems to contradict the humbleness of your origin."

"What I have said is true," returned Dorothy. "I should be sorry if you thought me capable of misrepresentation."

"You must not be so quick to take offence where none is meant," said Mr. Fitzmorris, quietly, as Dorothy, who felt rather wounded, rose to go. "Sit down, my good little girl, and listen to reason."

Dorothy thought that he had no right to question her so closely; he seemed to read her thoughts, and she neither resumed her seat nor spoke.

"You think me very impertinent, Miss Chance. You forget that, as your future pastor, I feel no small interest in your welfare; that the care of souls is my special business; that it is nothing to me whether you be poor or rich—all are alike in the eyes of Him I serve, whose eternal image is impressed, irrespective of rank or wealth, as strongly upon the soul of the peasant as upon that of the prince. Those alone are poor in whom sin has obliterated this Divine likeness. If you are rich in the Master's love, you are doubly so in my eyes, for I love all those who love the Lord Jesus with sincerity."

The smile that now lighted up the pale, stern features of the young vicar, made them almost beautiful. Dorothy felt the power of that calm, noble face, and reproached herself for the unjust prejudices she had entertained for him.

"I have spoken very foolishly," she said, and the tears came to her eyes. "Will you, sir, forgive my presumption?"

"I have nothing to forgive," and he looked amused.

"Oh, yes, you have. When I first saw you I thought you looked cold and proud, and acting upon that supposition, I was determined not to like you. This, you know, was very wrong."

"Not so wrong after all. You are a good physiognomist, Miss Chance. I was once all that you imagined me to be, and it takes a long while to obliterate the expression which the mind stamps upon the countenance in our early years. What made you alter your opinion so quickly?"

"A light which passed over your face, which I believe can only come from Heaven."

"I wish you may be a true prophet, Miss Chance."

"Oh, sir, don't call me by that ugly name. Let it be plain Dorothy."

"Well then, Dorothy, now there is peace between us, sit down and tell me who first discovered that you had a fine voice."

"Lord Wilton."

"Lord Wilton!" Mr. Fitzmorris almost started to his feet.

"He met me one day upon the heath, and told me that he had learned from Mrs. Martin that I had a good voice, and asked me to sing to him."

"And you complied with the request?"

"Certainly."

"Don't you think that it was a strange request for a nobleman to make to a poor country girl? Do you know, Dorothy, what Lord Wilton is?"

"Yes, Mr. Fitzmorris, the best friend I ever had in the world."

"Dorothy, the friendship of such men is enmity to God. Lord Wilton is a man of the world. A man without religion, who is haunted continually by the stings of conscience. Such a man rarely seeks the acquaintance of a young girl beneath him in rank, for any good purpose."

"Ah, you wrong him! indeed you do," cried Dorothy. "He wishes me to be good and happy, and to look upon him as a friend and father; and I love him as such. He placed me under Mrs. Martin's care, that I might be instructed to help her in the Sunday-school. Would a bad man have done that? For Mrs. Martin and her husband are among the excellent of the earth!"

"A great change must have come over him. When I last saw him, but that is some years ago, he was all that I have represented him."

Mr. Fitzmorris walked to the window, and stood with folded arms, apparently in deep thought.

There had never been much intimacy between his branch of the family and Lord Wilton's, though they were first cousins. Their mutual uncle had left an immense fortune to the Earl, which Gerard's father thought should have been equally divided. He did not consider that he had been fairly treated in the matter, and accused the Earl of having undermined him in the good graces of the titled millionaire.

These family quarrels are very bitter, and their pernicious effects are often traceable through several generations.

It was not of this great family disappointment that General Fitzmorris was thinking, for he was very indifferent about wealth, only regarding it as a useful means of doing good. He was mentally glancing over several passages in the Earl's life, in which his conduct had been severely censured by the public, when the seduction and subsequent suicide of a beautiful girl adopted by his mother, had formed the theme of every tongue.

And who was this beautiful country girl, this Dorothy Chance, that he should take such an interest in her education. He was afraid the old leaven was again at work, and he was determined, if possible, to frustrate his designs.

"Is your father one of my parishioners, Dorothy?" he said, again addressing her.

"Yes, sir, my adopted father."

"Are you an orphan?"

"My mother is dead. My father, I never knew; I don't know whether he be living or dead. But please, sir, don't ask me anything about it. Mrs. Martin can tell you my strange history. I did not mind hearing about it once, but now it gives me great pain."

"I should be sorry to distress you, Dorothy," he said, coming over to where she was standing, her hand resting on the piano.

"I wish to be your friend."

"I believe you, Mr. Fitzmorris, but I cannot be your friend, if you speak ill of Lord Wilton."

"I will only speak of him as he deserves. If he is a regenerated man, I shall rejoice to give him the right hand of fellowship. And now, good morning, Dorothy, I have much to do before the duties of the Sabbath. I shall see you again shortly."

Mr. Fitzmorris left the room, and Dorothy returned to the farm.

On her way thither, she pondered much on what had passed between her and Mr. Fitzmorris. His conversation had filled her mind with a thousand painful doubts and fears. Could there really be any impropriety in her intimacy with Lord Wilton? and was it possible that he could be such a person as Mr. Fitzmorris described? Then she recalled the Earl's own confession. The fearful manner in which he had accused himself of crimes committed in his youth against some one, whom he had loved and injured, and robbed of her fair name. But he had not spoken of her as his wife, but as one whom he had been ashamed to own, and had deserted and left to perish.

This was cruel and cowardly to say the least of it, but she, Dorothy, had pitied him so much, had mingled her tears with his, and actually wept in his arms.

Dorothy was frightened at having allowed her sympathy to carry her so far. She had acted foolishly; she saw, when it was too late, the imprudence of such conduct. If any one had passed them at the time, Miss Watling, for instance, what a story she would have had to tell. Her character would have been lost for ever. Was not this fancied illustration of her indiscretion more conclusive than any argument that Mr. Fitzmorris had used?

She felt miserably uncomfortable and ill at ease. In vain she repeated St. Paul's words, "To the pure, all things are pure." There was another text that seemed to answer that, "Avoid all appearance of evil." And would not malicious people raise an evil report about her, if they saw her frequently walking and talking with a man so far above her in rank as Lord Wilton?

Dorothy had boundless faith in the purity of his motives, in the sincerity of his friendship for her. But would the gossips of Hadstone see him with her eyes, or judge him with her heart? Alas, no. Dorothy shuddered at the danger which threatened her. But how could she avoid it. Could she tell Lord Wilton that she would lose her character if she was seen speaking to him? Would it not be base ingratitude to her noble benefactor? No. She would let things take their course. She was certain that his intentions were good and honourable, that it would all come right at last. She wished that she had never seen Mr. Fitzmorris. He had made her unhappy, and she had yet to learn that he was a better man than the Earl.

CHAPTER VII.

In the sermon that followed, he addressed his congregation, with the affectionate earnestness of a brother anxious to guide them into the paths of righteousness and peace. "He'll do. That he will," said old Rushmere to Joe Barford, as they left the church together. "He talks like a sensible man and a Christian. I shan't begrudge paying the small tythes to the like o' him."

"Well neebor, I thinks a mighty deal more o' measter Martin," responded Joe. "I doon't take to these big folks a' doon't. It doon't seem nataral to me for lords and jukes to go up into a pulpit, an' hold forth to the loikes o' us."

"He's neither lord nor duke. Though his mother was a yearl's darter an' a bad one she wor. It's one o' God's mysteries, how such wicked parents can have good children."

"He mayn't be as good as a' looks," quoth Joe. "I'll give yer my 'pinion on him twelve month hence."

Joe was a bit of a democrat, and having lost caste himself, was very bitter against every one who held a higher position.

Miss Watling was determined to patronize the new vicar. He was not bad looking, and a bachelor. To be sure he was a younger brother and not over gifted with the mammon of unrighteousness; but on this latter clause, she based the hope that he might be on the look out for a rich wife, and it was just possible, that his choice might fall upon her. She loitered in the porch gossipping with a friend until he left the church, and then said loud enough for him to hear,

"I call him a divine young man."

Gerard Fitzmorris passed out, without the least idea that he was the hero of this fine speech. His mind was so occupied with other thoughts, that he neither heard nor saw the speaker. Letty Barford did not like the new parson at all.

"He was tew stiff," she said, "and wanted to introduce new fashions into the church. He troubled himself, tew much about people's souls as if they did not know how to take care of them with out consulting him. If he came talking to her about her sins, she wu'd just tell him to mind his own business, and leave her to go to heaven, or t'other place, her own way."

Dorothy listened to all these remarks in silence. The eloquent discourse she had just heard had made a deep impression on her mind. She thought a great deal more of Mr. Fitzmorris since she had heard him in the pulpit, and felt convinced, in spite of her former prejudice, that he was a man of God.

She wished that Lord Wilton had heard him preach, and tell the story of his own conversion with such humble earnestness. It had affected her to tears, and she could not sufficiently admire a man of his rank and education unveiling the struggles of his own heart, that his fellow men might be benefitted by the confession.

Lord Wilton was in London; he had been called away suddenly to meet his son who had left the army on the sick list, and was reported by the surgeon of the regiment as being far gone in consumption.

"It will be a dreadful blow to the Earl, if he should lose his son," said Mr. Martin, as he walked home from church with the vicar. "In such case who would be the heir?"

"My brother Francis."

"And where is he at present?"

"That would be a difficult question to answer. Here and there and everywhere. Like most young men of the world, where ever pleasure or love of excitement leads him. Should this title fall to him, I fear it would be the very worst thing that could happen to him."

"That does not necessarily follow."

"My dear friend, an increase of wealth to men of very dissipated habits, seldom leads to improvement. It only gives them a greater opportunity of being wicked. I would much rather the Earl married again."

"That is not at all likely. He seems to have outlived all human passion. His hopes and affections are entirely centred in this son."

"How dreadful is the rending asunder of ties that bind us closely to the earth," said Mr. Fitzmorris. "I speak from painful experience—but it must be done to bring us to God with whole and undivided hearts. It is only through much suffering, mental or physical, but generally both combined, that men come to a knowledge of their own weakness, and the all-sufficiency of Christ, to satisfy the cravings of the soul, for a higher and more perfect state of existence."

"By the hints you threw out in your sermon, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was led to imagine that your own conversion had been brought about by some heavy affliction."

"Yes, I have felt the deep anguish of offering up a bleeding heart upon the altar of duty. But oh, how great has been my reward! what joy and peace has arisen out of the very sorrow that was at first so overwhelming. What a blessed light sprang out of that dense darkness, when the Holy Spirit first illumined, with irresistible splendour, the black gulf of despair in which my soul lay grovelling. Though keenly conscious of my lost state, I was totally unable to express my wants and desires in prayer.

"A humble instrument was sent to aid me in that terrible conflict. A rude, uneducated man, but a sincere Christian, who had recently entered my service, and who watched by my sick bed when all my friends forsook me for fear of infection. He it was who opened up to me the sublime truths of the Gospel, and taught me to pray.

"To me, he became more than a friend or brother, my father in Christ. I loved him as only a son new-born to life could love such a benefactor. When I recovered from that terrible fever, he took it and died.

"Oh, what a triumph was that death! How serenely he rendered up his simple soul to his Creator, and entered the dark river with a smile upon his lips, and the light of Heaven upon his brow. Whenever my faith grows weak, I think of Harley's death-bed, and become as strong as a lion ready to battle for the truth against a whole world combined."

"You are no bigot either, Fitzmorris."

"I abhor it in any shape. Religion was meant to make men happy, not gloomy, morose, and censorious, condemning others because they cannot think as we think, or see any particular advantages in the forms and ceremonies that we deem essential. It is only in modes of worship that real Christians differ. I always endeavour to look beyond the outward and material, to the inward and spiritual."

Henry Martin was very much of the same way of thinking, but he was not such an enthusiast as Gerald Fitzmorris, and, perhaps, lacked the mental courage to avow it.

For some weeks, Mr. Fitzmorris was so much engaged in going round the two parishes of Hadstone and Storby, for he had been inducted into both, and getting acquainted with the church members, that Dorothy could go and practice her lessons without any fear of meeting him.

Storby, being a sea-port town containing several thousand inhabitants, offered a larger field of usefulness, and the Hadstone folk were left almost entirely to the care of Henry Martin, Mr. Fitzmorris occasionally preaching and inspecting the Sunday school.

There was no evening service at Hadstone, and the distance to Storby being within the compass of a pleasant walk, the Martins and Dorothy generally walked over to listen to the vicar's eloquent preaching.

Every day he grew in their affection and esteem; he was so kind and cheerful, so amiable to the children, and so contented with Mrs. Martin's humble arrangements for his comfort, that she often told Dorothy that he was a "treasure of a man."

He was generally up for a morning walk by five o'clock, when he never failed to call the children, telling them to come with him to the fields and learn wisdom.

Dorothy had several times joined the party, and been a delighted listener to his lessons in natural history. He never failed to lead their minds upward from the contemplation of the works of the Creator, to the Creator himself, making religion a beautiful, holy, and practical thing.

"The Lord's kingdom is a world of wonders," he said; "the more we study nature, the greater He becomes in our eyes, the more insignificant we seem in our own. Look around you, dear children. The Heavens declare the glory of God. David learned that sublime lesson ages ago. The seasons and their changes present a constant succession of miracles to those who study them with the eye of faith. On every side we are encompassed by a cloud of witnesses to testify of the Divine love, the inexhaustible contrivance, and the infinite wisdom of the Deity.

"Look at this exquisite little flower, its tiny petals so minute that a rude touch would blot them out of existence; yet examine them in this microscope, and behold how perfect they are—'that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'"

"But some things are very ugly," said Harry. "I hate snakes and toads."

"Both, though repulsive in our eyes, are not without their beauty. The toad has a sparkling eye, and the snake is graceful in his movements. The swiftness and agility with which he glides over the ground, presents a wonderful illustration of the mechanical skill of the great Contriver."

"Oh," said Dorothy, "there is no pleasure to me so great as observing the works of God in his creation."

"You are right, Dorothy, to encourage such sentiments. The love of nature is a sinless enjoyment, in which angels share. Nature is a material embodiment of divine truth, and if studied rightly, brings the mind into communion with the great Father, whose Spirit lives through all. Yea, even inanimate substances, or those which we consider as such, obey His commands and work out His will. This, to our finite comprehension, is unintelligible, but nothing is without its significance to Him whose Spirit exists in every atom that His wisdom has called into being.

"Despise not the lowest forms of life, for His power is shown as fully in the smallest insect, as in the lordly being who bears His image, and calls himself man.

"Can you look at anything, however mean, as made in vain, when it required the mind of a God to give it a place in His universe?

"Oh that man could comprehend the perfect unity that exists between God and His works. From the least to the greatest, if one among them had not been necessary, it would never have been formed, for the Creator does nothing in vain. There is no waste in the Divine economy. He gathers up the fragments so that nothing is lost, but renews them in other forms to suit His own purpose. Thus the chain of existence runs on through the long ages of eternity, and not one link is broken, though the law of change operates on all."

"Now, Harry, you must not abuse toads and snakes any more," said Rosina, "for they are as much God's creatures as we are, and I hate to see you kill them, when they are not doing you any harm."

"Well said, little Rosey," and Mr. Fitzmorris patted her curly head. "'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' Cultivate purity of heart, and universal benevolence, which are very acceptable in the sight of the good Father. And that reminds me, dear children, that I have work of another sort to do, and must not loiter away the precious time among the green grass and the sunbeams any longer."

"The day is so pleasant—everything looks so lovely," said Dorothy, "I agree with the poet, 'Methinks it is good to be here.'"

Reluctantly they all rose from the green hill-side to return to the parsonage. Rosey and Johnnie, as the youngest of the party, claiming the right to walk with Mr. Fitzmorris. Dearly the children loved him, for he taught them with a gentle authority, which, while it inspired awe, greatly increased their affection. "You are a great friend to the working classes, Mr. Fitzmorris," said Dorothy, as they walked over the heath.

Dorothy loved to hear him talk, and wanted to engage him in conversation.

"Our blessed Master was one of them," he said cheerfully. "They are peculiarly His people, for like the birds of the air, they live under His especial providence, and are generally more thankful recipients of His bounty than the rich. I despise the man, be his rank in life what it may, who is ashamed of honest labour. Industry is a healthful recreation both for the body and mind, and is the genuine parent of honesty. Our good Hannah More has said, that 'cleanliness is next to godliness,' but poor people must be industrious before they can afford to be clean. The three united form a beautiful harmony."

"I suppose that that is the reason, Mr. Fitzmorris, that you work so much in the garden, and in papa's potato field, instead of going out visiting like other folks?"

Mr. Fitzmorris laughed heartily.

"I enjoy a little healthy work for its own sake, Harry, when it does not take me away from necessary duties. I have seed to sow, and visits to make that you wot not of. A wise man has said, and I fully endorse the sentiment, that 'The Lord's kingdom is a kingdom of uses.' 'My Father works hitherto, and I work,' said the blessed Master. If duty calls you to work, work as he worked—not merely for your own advantage, but for the benefit of others. While labouring at any profitable employment, never forget the poor and destitute, whose wants may be alleviated by your diligence."

"I wish you would teach me, Mr. Fitzmorris," said Dorothy, "how to work less for myself and more for my fellow creatures. It must be a blessed thing, when it makes you so happy."

"I have my sorrows, too, Dorothy," he said, with a sigh. "But they are of a less personal nature than they were formerly. I grieve for those near and dear to me that cannot understand the peace and freedom that I have found; that will not believe that the religion of Jesus enlarges the heart, till it could encircle the world in its wide embrace. To those whose eyes have been miraculously opened to the light of truth, the condition of the wilfully blind is sad indeed."

The cheek lately flushed with exercise, was very pale now, and the wonderful eyes moist with tears, and he walked some paces quickly in advance of his companion, then turning back, he said in his usual kind, but rather abrupt manner:

"Dorothy, if you wish to take a lesson from me, and see how I work, come to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock, and I will show you a new method of employing your time." They were now opposite the curate's garden, and Dorothy turned up the lane and retraced her steps to the farm.

Exactly as the clock struck four, she rapped at Mr. Fitzmorris' study door. He was ready to receive her, his hat and gloves lay on the table beside him, and a small carpet-bag lying on the floor. He closed the book he was reading, and rose to meet her.

"I am glad to see you so punctual, Dorothy; it is a valuable quality. I hate to wait for any one, and still more, that any one should wait for me. You remember that awful parable of the five foolish virgins. I never read it without a secret fear, lest death should find me with no oil in my lamp. But we will talk as we go along, if you are not afraid of trusting yourself with me?"

"Mr. Fitzmorris, how can you imagine such a thing?" and Dorothy looked up in his face as if to reproach him for her supposed want of faith.

"I should not blame you a bit, Dorothy Chance, after the long lecture I read you about your imprudence in meeting Lord Wilton alone on the heath. You must think me a great hypocrite for taking you out alone with me. But Mrs. Martin has made me acquainted with your history, and I respect you for defending the character of the man who has, indeed, proved himself to you, a sincere friend, who from Henry Martin's account of him, I trust is slowly, though surely, striving to enter the straight gate that leads to heaven."

"Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are so good and truthful, it is impossible to be angry with you long; and I was angry with you for speaking so harshly of poor Lord Wilton, but I love you all the better now, for confessing so frankly that you were in error."

She held out her hand as she spoke. Gerard took it, and pressed it reverentially.

"We are friends then?"

"Yes. I hope for ever."

"Amen!" said her companion heartily; "and now, little one, no more sentimentality, but let us go to work."

Shouldering the carpet-bag across his stick, the vicar led the way over the lawn, and on to the heath.

"Where are we going?" asked Dorothy, not a little amused at the decided manner in which her companion took to the road.

"Do you know a place called Hog Lane, at the bottom of the heath, on the east side, where it slopes down to the salt flats?"

"Yes, I have been there looking for the cows with Gilbert."

"And who is Gilbert?"

Mr. Fitzmorris suddenly faced about. He was walking still ahead, and cast such a sharp penetrating glance at Dorothy, that she felt her face crimson, and her knees tremble with agitation.

"Is he your brother, or your sweetheart?"

"Neither, Mr. Fitzmorris. He is the son of the kind people who brought me up."

"And you never took a fancy to each other. Eh, Dorothy?"

"Oh, yes, we did," returned Dorothy, with great simplicity. "But that is all off now, and he is going to marry somebody else. I did love him with my whole heart and soul, and it caused me the greatest anguish of mind I ever experienced, to try and forget him. It's all for the best, Mr. Fitzmorris, but it was hard to realize the dreadful truth that he had ceased to love me."

She turned aside to hide her tears.

Gerard was shocked that his careless speech had given her so much pain, for of this part of her history Mrs. Martin had not spoken. Perhaps she was afraid by so doing that she might lessen the interest which she perceived that Mr. Fitzmorris felt in Dorothy.

"Forgive me, Dorothy, I spoke at random. How little we understand the might of words, their power of conferring pleasure, or giving intense pain. Do dry these tears; the sight of them quite unmans me. By-and-by, when we are better friends, you will tell me all about it, and we can sympathize with each other."

"And you have known that great heart sorrow?" sobbed Dorothy.

"In its deepest, fullest sense, Dorothy Chance. But the loss of my earthly love gave birth to one of a higher and nobler character—the love of Christ—which has made me happy, indeed. May the same blessed balm, my poor girl, be poured into your wounds."

"They are closing," returned Dorothy. "It is only now and then, when some casual observation brings it to my mind, that they open afresh."

"Oh, the might of words," again sighed her companion. "But let us banish all such melancholy reminiscences. See, yonder is the entrance to Hog Lane, a very dirty unromantic spot;" and he pointed out the location with his stick. A row of low dilapidated cottages, fronting the marsh.

"Who owns this property?"

"It belongs to Miss Watling. The people who live in these hovels are her tenants."

"It well deserves the name of Hog Lane. I must have some talk with that woman, and try and persuade her to repair the houses. They are not fit habitations for pigs."

"She is so fond of money, you will scarcely get her to do anything to make them more comfortable," said Dorothy.

"Well, if she steadily refuses, I must do something to them myself. The house just before us, and to which we are going, has such a broken roof, that the rain falls upon my poor dying old friend, as he lies in his bed. I will call upon her, and take her out to see him, which cannot fail to win her compassion."

Mr. Fitzmorris rapped at the half-open door of the first house in the row. A feeble voice bade him "come in," and Dorothy followed her conductor into a small dark room, dimly lighted by a few broken panes of glass.

An old man was lying on a flock bed that stood in a corner of the room, beside which a little girl was seated knitting. The furniture of the room consisted of the aforesaid bed, a ricketty table and the three-legged stool which the small individual occupied. Various discoloured pieces of crockery, and a few old cooking utensils were ranged on a worm-eaten shelf. The old man's face wore an expression of patient endurance. It was much wasted and deadly pale. His dim eyes brightened, however, as Mr. Fitzmorris approached his bed. "Well, my dear old friend," he said, in his deep tender voice, and taking one of the thin hands that lay upon the ragged patchwork coverlid, in his own. "How is the Lord dealing with you to-day?"

"Graciously," was the gentle reply. "I have not suffered such acute pain in my limbs, and my mind has had a season of rest. I feel nearer to Him, and my heart is refreshed and comforted. I know that the Lord is good, 'that His mercy endureth for ever,' thanks be to your reverence, for the care you have taken of my soul. If you had not been sent to me like a good angel, I should have died in my sins, and never come to a knowledge of the truth."

"Ah, you will forget all the bodily suffering when the glorious day of your release comes, you will then own with trembling joy, that it was good for you to have been thus afflicted. But where is Rachel, Jones?" he continued, looking round the room. "In your helpless state, you cannot well be left alone."

"Please, sir, mother is gone to Storby to buy bread," said the little girl. "She left me to take care of neighbour Francis, during her absence."

"How long has she been away?"

"Since the morning."

"And my poor old friend has not been turned in his bed all day?"

"Ah, it's very weary lying in the one position for so many hours," sighed the paralyzed man. "But I have borne it as patiently as I could."

Stepping up to the bed, Mr. Fitzmorris raised the sufferer in his strong arms, adjusted his pillows comfortably, and turned him gently on his side, with his face to the open door, that he might be refreshed with a view of the country beyond. Then taking a little flask from his carpet-bag, he gave him a glass of wine, and handing another bottle to Dorothy, he told her to go into the next house, and warm the broth it contained at Martha Brown's fire. When Dorothy returned with a bowl of rich broth, she found the vicar sitting on the bed, reading to the old man from a small pocket Bible. The rapt look of devotion in the sick man's face, and the heavenly expression which played like a glory round the calm brow of the vicar would have made a study for a painter.

Dorothy paused in the door-way to contemplate it. To her it was a living picture of beauty—and when, after the chapter was concluded, and in his sweet solemn manner, Mr. Fitzmorris said, "Let us pray," she knelt down by the humble bed, and upon the broken floor, and prayed with all her heart.

What a simple touching prayer it was that flowed from those gracious lips; it seemed to embody the spiritual wants of all present—but when, on rising from his knees, Mr. Fitzmorris proceeded to feed the old man, who was utterly incapable of helping himself, she could not restrain her tears.

"Oh, let me do that," she said.

He answered her with his quiet smile.

"Not to-day, Dorothy. To me it is a blessed privilege to administer to the wants of a suffering servant of Christ. When you have experienced the happiness it imparts, you will go and do likewise."

On leaving the impotent man, he paid a visit to the three other dwellings, which were all comprised under the one roof.

To Martha Brown, a widow with six young children, he gave a Bible and a tract. For she had been a mechanic's wife, had seen better days, and could read and write. After speaking words of comfort and cheering, he slipped into her hand money to buy shoes, and a new suit for her eldest boy, whom he had recommended into a gentleman's service, but the lad wanted decent clothing before he could accept the offer. This the good Samaritan generously supplied. "The Lord bless you, sir," said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. "I hope Jim will never disgrace the good character your reverence has given him."

Rachel Jones, the occupant of the third cottage, a farm labourer's wife, was out. She was regularly paid by Mr. Fitzmorris for attending upon Thomas Francis, whom his benevolence had saved from the workhouse—a fate which the poor old man greatly dreaded.

The last cabin they entered was more dirty and dilapidated than the three other dwellings; its tenant, a poor shoemaker, who patched and re-soled the coarse high-lows used by the farm servants. He was a middle-aged man, with a large, half-grown-up family of squalid, bare-footed, rude girls and boys. His wife had been dead for several years, and his mother, an aged crone, bent double with the rheumatism, though unable to leave her chair, ruled the whole family with her venomous tongue. "She is a very uninteresting person," said Mr. Fitzmorris, in a whisper to Dorothy, as he rapped at the door, "but the poor creature has a soul to be saved, and the greater her need, the more imperative the duty to attempt her conversion."

Before the least movement was made to admit the visitors, a shrill, harsh voice screamed out,

"Ben! Who be that at the door?"

"New parson, and Farmer Rushmere's gal."

"And why don't you open the door?"

"'Cos I don't want to. I'd rather they went away."

"Open the door immediately," screamed the old beldame, "or I'll strip the skin off you."

"When you can get at me," laughed the insolent lad. "Why don't you hobble up and open the door yoursel'?"

Mr. Fitzmorris put an end to this disgraceful colloquy, by walking into the house. The shoemaker was absent; no one but the old crone and her grandson, a young, surly-looking ruffian of fourteen, was at home.

"Well, Mrs. Bell, how are you this afternoon?"

"Oh, just the same. Aches and pains—aches and pains. Now in my arm—now in my leg—then again in every bone in my body. What a thing it is to be old and poor, and surrounded by a lot of young wretches, who laugh at your sufferings, and do all they can to worry and vex you."

"You draw a poor picture of domestic comfort," said Mr. Fitzmorris, sitting down beside her. "But why do you suffer your grandchildren to behave in this undutiful manner?"

"Lauk-a-mercy, sir, how can I help it?"

"Are you kind to them?"

"No," said the boy. "Granny's never kind. She scolds, and rates, and swears at us from morn till night, and then she's riled if we swears agin."

"You hear what your grandson says, Mrs. Bell. Is his accusation true?"

"It be none of your business, whether or no," returned the woman, with a scowl.

"Ah, but it is my business. God sent me here to convert sinners, and without you listen to the message of mercy he sends to you through me, I fear, at your advanced age, that you will find yourself in a very bad way. How old are you?"

"Eighty-four."

"So old, and no nearer heaven. Why, my poor old friend, you have no reasonable expectation to live one day beyond another."

"I shan't die the sooner for your saying so."

"Nor live one day the longer—both casualties are in the hands of God. Do you ever pray?"

"I never was taught a prayer."

"Shall I pray with you?"

"Just as you please."

"Well, I do please. But first listen for a few minutes to the Word of God."

He read several of those remarkable invitations to sinners, which few can hear for the first time unmoved, and then knelt down beside the old reprobate, and prayed so earnestly for God to touch her heart, and lead her to repentance, that her hard nature seemed humbled by his eloquence.

When he rose to go, to his infinite surprise and joy the boy stole to his side.

"Oh, sir, are you sure that those awful words you read to Granny are true?"

"Yes, my son, God's truth."

"And will he save a bad boy like me?"

"Certainly, if you repent, and seek him with all your heart and soul. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

"And will you come again, and teach me how to love Him and pray to Him?"

"Yes, with pleasure. Can you read?"

"No, sir."

"Come to Storby Sunday-school, and I will teach you."

"That I will, right gladly. But, oh, sir, I know that I have been a very wicked boy."

"So are all men who live without God in the world. If you wish really to lead a new life, begin by leaving off swearing, and treat your old grandmother more respectfully. It may please God to make you an instrument in His hands for her conversion."

"I will try," said the lad. "Oh, I be glad, glad, that you came to the house."

Mr. Fitzmorris was glad too, or his face belied him. He slipped a few pieces of silver into the old woman's hand, to procure her some tea and sugar, and went on his way rejoicing.

"See, my dear young friend," he said to Dorothy, when they were once more on their road home, "how rich a harvest God often reaps from the most unpromising fields. The seed sown in that boy's heart may yet bear fruit for heaven."