en-fr  THE BISHOP’S SECRET by Fergus Hume, CHAPTER 10
MORNING SERVICE IN THE MINSTER.

La cathédrale est la gloire de Beorminster, du comté et, en fait, de toute l’Angleterre, puisqu’aucune église ne la dépasse en dimensions et splendeur, sauf les cathédrales de York et Canterbury. Fondée et dotée par Henri II En 1184 pour la gloire de Dieu, elle est dédiée au bienheureux Saint Wulf d’Osserton, un saint ermite de l’époque saxonne, qui fut assassiné par les barbares danois. L’évêque Gandolf conçut l’édifice dans le pittoresque style architectural anglo-normand; et comme les plans d’origine ont été strictement respectés par les prélats successifs, l’immense structure est le plus bel exemple existant de la supériorité normande en architecture. Il fut commencé par Gandolf en 1185 et achevé au début du siècle actuel; par conséquent, comme la construction a duré six cents ans, chacune de ses parties est réalisée de la façon la plus parfaite. Elle est renommée tant pour sa beauté que pour son caractère sacré et constitue l'un des plus splendides monuments commémoratifs de l'art architectural et de la foi la plus sincères qu'on ait jamais trouvés en Angleterre, cette terre de belles églises.

The great central tower rises to the height of two hundred feet in square massiveness, and from this point springs a slender and graceful spire to another hundred feet, so that next to Salisbury, the great archetype of this special class of ecclesiastical architecture, it is the tallest spire in England. Two square towers, richly ornamented, embellish the western front, and beneath the great window over the central entrance is a series of canopied arches. The church is cruciform in shape, and is built of Portland stone, the whole being richly ornamented with pinnacles, buttresses, crocketted spires and elaborate tracery. Statues of saints, kings, queens and bishops are placed in niches along the northern and southern fronts, and the western front itself is sculptured with scenes from Holy Scripture in the quaint grotesque style of mediæval art. No ivy is permitted to conceal the beauties of the building; and elevated in the clear air, far above the smoke of the town, it looks as fresh and white and clean cut as though it had been erected only within the last few years. Spared by Henry VIII. and the iconoclastic rage of the Puritans, Time alone has dealt with it; and Time has mellowed the whole to a pale amber hue which adds greatly to the beauty of the mighty fane. Beorminster Cathedral is a poem in stone.

Within, the nave and transepts are lofty and imposing, with innumerable arches springing from massive marble pillars. The rood screen is ornate, with figures of saints and patriarchs; the pavement is diversified with brasses and carved marble slabs, and several Crusaders’ tombs adorn the side chapels. The many windows are mostly of stained glass, since these were not destroyed by the Puritans; and when the sun shines on a summer’s day the twilight interior is dyed with rich hues and quaint patterns. As the Bishop of Beorminster is a High Churchman the altar is magnificently decorated, and during service, what with the light and colour and brilliancy, the vast building seems—unlike the dead aspect of many of its kind—to be filled with life and movement and living faith. A Romanist might well imagine that he was attending one of the magnificent and imposing services of his own faith, save that the uttered words are spoken in the mother tongue.

As became a city whose whole existence depended upon the central shrine, the services at the cathedral were invariably well attended. The preaching attracted some, the fine music many, and the imposing ritual introduced by Bishop Pendle went a great way towards bringing worshippers to the altar. A cold, frigid, undecorated service, appealing more to the intellect than the senses, would not have drawn together so vast and attentive a congregation; but the warmth and colour and musical fervour of the new ritual lured the most careless within the walls of the sacred building. Bishop Pendle was right in his estimate of human nature; for when the senses are enthralled by colour and sound, and vast spaces, and symbolic decorations the reverential feeling thus engendered prepares the mind for the reception of the sublime truths of Christianity. A pure faith and a gorgeous ritual are not so incompatible as many people think. God should be worshipped with pomp and splendour; we should bring to His service all that we can invent in the way of art and beauty. If God has prepared for those who believe the splendid habitation of the New Jerusalem with its gates of pearl and its streets of gold, why should we, His creatures, stint our gifts in His service, and debar the beautiful things, which He inspires us to create with brain and hand, from use in His holy temple? “Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and out of the fulness of the hand the giver should give. “Date et dabitur!” The great Luther was right in applying this saying to the church.

One of the congregation at St Wulf’s on this particular morning was Captain George Pendle, and he came less for the service than in the hope—after the manner of those in love—of meeting with Mab Arden. During the reading of the lessons his eyes were roving here and there in search of that beloved face, but much to his dismay he could not see it. Finally, on a chair near a pillar, he caught sight of Miss Whichello in her poke bonnet and black silk cloak, but she was alone, and there were no bright eyes beside her to send a glance in the direction of George. Having ascertained beyond all doubt that Mab was not in the church, and believing that she was unwell after the shock of Jentham’s attack on the previous night, George withdrew his attention from the congregation, and settled himself to listen attentively to the anthem. It was worthy of the cathedral, and higher praise cannot be given. “I have blotted out as a thick cloud,” sang the boy soloist in a clear sweet treble, “I have blotted out thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.” Then came the triumphant cry of the choir, borne on the rich waves of sound rolling from the organ, “Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.” The lofty roof reverberated with the melodious thunder, and the silvery altoes pierced through the great volume of sound like arrows of song. “Return! Return! Return!” called the choristers louder and higher and clearer, and ended, with a magnificent burst of harmony, with the sublime proclamation, “The Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and glorified himself in Israel!” When the white-robed singers resumed their seats, the organ still continued to peal forth triumphant notes, which died away in gentle murmurs. It was like the passing by of a tempest; the stilling of the ocean after a storm.

Mr Cargrim preached the sermon, and, with a vivid recollection of his present enterprise, waxed eloquent on the ominous text, “Be sure thy sin will find thee out.” His belief that the bishop was guilty of some crime, for the concealment of which he intended to bribe Jentham, had been strengthened by an examination on that very morning of the cheque-book. Dr Pendle had departed on horseback for Southberry after an early breakfast, and after hurriedly despatching his own, Cargrim had hastened to the library. Here, as he expected, he found the cheque-book carelessly left in an unlocked drawer of the desk, and on looking over it he found that one of the butts had been torn out. The previous butt bore a date immediately preceding that of Dr Pendle’s departure for London, so Cargrim had little difficulty in concluding that the bishop had drawn the next cheque in London, and had torn out the butt to which it had been attached. This showed, as the chaplain very truly thought, that Dr Pendle was desirous of concealing not only the amount of the cheque—since he had kept no note of the sum on the butt—but of hiding the fact that the cheque had been drawn at all. This conduct, coupled with the fact of Jentham’s allusion to Tom Tiddler’s ground, and his ‘snatch of extempore song, confirmed Cargrim in his suspicions that Pendle had visited London for the purpose of drawing out a large sum of money, and intended to pay the same over to Jentham that very night on Southberry Heath. With this in his mind it was no wonder that Cargrim preached a stirring sermon. He repeated his warning text over and over again; he illustrated it in the most brilliant fashion; and his appeals to those who had secret sins, to confess them at once, were quite heartrending in their pathos. As most of his congregation had their own little peccadilloes to worry over, Mr Cargrim’s sermon made them quite uneasy, and created a decided sensation, much to his own gratification. If Bishop Pendle had only been seated on his throne to hear that sermon, Cargrim would have been thoroughly satisfied. But, alas! the bishop—worthy man—was confirming innocent sinners at Southberry, and thus lost any chance he might have had of profiting by his chaplain’s eloquence.

However, the congregation could not be supposed to know the secret source of the chaplain’s eloquence, and his withering denunciations were supposed to arise from a consciousness of his own pure and open heart. The female admirers of Cargrim particularly dwelt in after-church gossip on this presumed cause of the excellent sermon they had heard, and when the preacher appeared he was congratulated on all sides. Miss Tancred for once forgot her purse story, and absolutely squeaked, in the highest of keys, in her efforts to make the young man understand the amount of pleasure he had given her. Even Mrs Pansey was pleased to express her approval of so well chosen a text, and looked significantly at several of her friends as she remarked that she hoped they would take its warning to heart.

George came upon his father’s chaplain, grinning like a heathen idol, in the midst of a tempestuous ocean of petticoats, and the bland way in which he sniffed up the incense of praise showed how grateful such homage was to his vain nature. At that moment he saw himself a future bishop, and that at no very great distance of time. Indeed, had the election of such a prelate been in the hands of his admirers, he would have been elevated that very moment to the nearest vacant episcopalian throne. Captain Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest-worship.

“The sneaking cad!” he thought, sneering at the excellent Cargrim. “I dare say he thinks he is the greatest man in Beorminster just now. He looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.” There was no love lost between the chaplain and the captain, for on several occasions the latter had found Cargrim a slippery customer, and lax in his notions of honour; while the curate, knowing that he had not been clever enough to hoodwink George, hated him with all the fervour and malice of his petty soul. However, he hoped soon to have the power to wound Captain Pendle through his father, so he could afford to smile blandly in response to the young soldier’s contemptuous look. And he smiled more than ever when brisk Miss Whichello, with her small face, ruddy as a winter apple, marched up and joined in the congratulations.

“In future I shall call you Boanerges, Mr Cargrim,” she cried, her bright little eyes dancing. “You quite frightened me. I looked into my mind to see what sins I had committed.” “And found none, I’m sure,” said the courtly chaplain.

“You would have found one if you had looked long enough,” growled Mrs Pansey, who hated the old maid as a rival practitioner amongst the poor, “and that is, you did not bring your niece to hear the sermon. I don’t call such carelessness Christianity.” “Don’t look at my sins through a microscope, Mrs Pansey. I did not bring Mab because she is not well.” “Oh, really, dear Miss Winchello,” chimed in Daisy Norsham. “Why, I thought that your sweet niece looked the very picture of health. All those strong, tall women do; not like poor little me.” “You need dieting,” retorted Miss Whichello, with a disparaging glance. “Your face is pale and pasty; if it isn’t powder, it’s bad digestion.” “Miss Whichello!” cried the outraged spinster.

“I’m an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to speak my mind. I’m sure Mrs Pansey always does.” “You need not be so very unpleasant! No, really!” “The truth is always unpleasant,” said Mrs Pansey, who could not forbear a thrust even at her own guest, “but Miss Whichello doesn’t often hear it,” with a dig at her rival. “Come away, Daisy. Mr Cargrim, next time you preach take for your text, ‘The tongue is a two-edged sword. '” “Do, Mr Cargrim,” cried Miss Whichello, darting an angry glance at Mrs Pansey, “and illustrate it with the one to whom it particularly applies.” “Ladies! ladies!” remonstrated Cargrim, while both combatants ruffled their plumes like two fighting cocks, and the more timid of the spectators scuttled out of the way. How the situation would have ended it is impossible to say, as the two ladies were equally matched, but George saved it by advancing to greet Miss Whichello. When the little woman saw him, she darted forward and shook his hand with unfeigned warmth.

“My dear Captain Pendle,” she cried, “I am so glad to see you; and thank you for your noble conduct of last night.” “Why, Miss Whichello, it was nothing,” murmured the modest hero.

“Indeed, I must say it was very valiant,” said Cargrim, graciously. “Do you know, ladies, that Miss Arden was attacked last night by a tramp and Captain Pendle knocked him down?” “Oh, really! how very sweet!” cried Daisy, casting an admiring look on George’s handsome face, which appealed to her appreciation of manly beauty.

“What was Miss Arden doing to place herself in the position of being attacked by a tramp?” asked Mrs Pansey, in a hard voice. “This must be looked into.” “Thank you, Mrs Pansey, I have looked into it myself,” said Miss Whichello. “Captain Pendle, come home with me to luncheon and tell me all about it; Mr Cargrim, you come also.” Both gentlemen bowed and accepted, the former because he wished to see Mab, the latter because he knew that Captain Pendle did not want him to come. As Miss Whichello moved off with her two guests, Mrs Pansey exclaimed in a loud voice,— “Poor young men! Luncheon indeed! They will be starved. I know for a fact that she weighs out the food in scales.” Then, having had the last word, she went home in triumph.
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MORNING SERVICE IN THE MINSTER.
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Founded and endowed by Henry II.
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Spared by Henry VIII.
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Beorminster Cathedral is a poem in stone.
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It was worthy of the cathedral, and higher praise cannot be given.
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“Return!
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Return!
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But, alas!
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Captain Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest-worship.
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“The sneaking cad!” he thought, sneering at the excellent Cargrim.
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“I dare say he thinks he is the greatest man in Beorminster just now.
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“You quite frightened me.
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“I’m an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to speak my mind.
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“Come away, Daisy.
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“Indeed, I must say it was very valiant,” said Cargrim, graciously.
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Luncheon indeed!
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They will be starved.
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MORNING SERVICE IN THE MINSTER.

The cathedral is the glory of Beorminster, of the county, and, indeed, of all England, since no churches surpass it in size and splendour, save the minsters of York and Canterbury. Founded and endowed by Henry II. in 1184 for the glory of God, it is dedicated to the blessed Saint Wulf of Osserton, a holy hermit of Saxon times, who was killed by the heathen Danes. Bishop Gandolf designed the building in the picturesque style of Anglo-Norman architecture; and as the original plans have been closely adhered to by successive prelates, the vast fabric is the finest example extant of the Norman superiority in architectural science. It was begun by Gandolf in 1185, and finished at the beginning of the present century; therefore, as it took six hundred years in building, every portion of it is executed in the most perfect manner. It is renowned both for its beauty and sanctity, and forms one of the most splendid memorials of architectural art and earnest faith to be found even in England, that land of fine churches.

The great central tower rises to the height of two hundred feet in square massiveness, and from this point springs a slender and graceful spire to another hundred feet, so that next to Salisbury, the great archetype of this special class of ecclesiastical architecture, it is the tallest spire in England. Two square towers, richly ornamented, embellish the western front, and beneath the great window over the central entrance is a series of canopied arches. The church is cruciform in shape, and is built of Portland stone, the whole being richly ornamented with pinnacles, buttresses, crocketted spires and elaborate tracery. Statues of saints, kings, queens and bishops are placed in niches along the northern and southern fronts, and the western front itself is sculptured with scenes from Holy Scripture in the quaint grotesque style of mediæval art. No ivy is permitted to conceal the beauties of the building; and elevated in the clear air, far above the smoke of the town, it looks as fresh and white and clean cut as though it had been erected only within the last few years. Spared by Henry VIII. and the iconoclastic rage of the Puritans, Time alone has dealt with it; and Time has mellowed the whole to a pale amber hue which adds greatly to the beauty of the mighty fane. Beorminster Cathedral is a poem in stone.

Within, the nave and transepts are lofty and imposing, with innumerable arches springing from massive marble pillars. The rood screen is ornate, with figures of saints and patriarchs; the pavement is diversified with brasses and carved marble slabs, and several Crusaders’ tombs adorn the side chapels. The many windows are mostly of stained glass, since these were not destroyed by the Puritans; and when the sun shines on a summer’s day the twilight interior is dyed with rich hues and quaint patterns. As the Bishop of Beorminster is a High Churchman the altar is magnificently decorated, and during service, what with the light and colour and brilliancy, the vast building seems—unlike the dead aspect of many of its kind—to be filled with life and movement and living faith. A Romanist might well imagine that he was attending one of the magnificent and imposing services of his own faith, save that the uttered words are spoken in the mother tongue.

As became a city whose whole existence depended upon the central shrine, the services at the cathedral were invariably well attended. The preaching attracted some, the fine music many, and the imposing ritual introduced by Bishop Pendle went a great way towards bringing worshippers to the altar. A cold, frigid, undecorated service, appealing more to the intellect than the senses, would not have drawn together so vast and attentive a congregation; but the warmth and colour and musical fervour of the new ritual lured the most careless within the walls of the sacred building. Bishop Pendle was right in his estimate of human nature; for when the senses are enthralled by colour and sound, and vast spaces, and symbolic decorations the reverential feeling thus engendered prepares the mind for the reception of the sublime truths of Christianity. A pure faith and a gorgeous ritual are not so incompatible as many people think. God should be worshipped with pomp and splendour; we should bring to His service all that we can invent in the way of art and beauty. If God has prepared for those who believe the splendid habitation of the New Jerusalem with its gates of pearl and its streets of gold, why should we, His creatures, stint our gifts in His service, and debar the beautiful things, which He inspires us to create with brain and hand, from use in His holy temple? “Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and out of the fulness of the hand the giver should give. “Date et dabitur!” The great Luther was right in applying this saying to the church.

One of the congregation at St Wulf’s on this particular morning was Captain George Pendle, and he came less for the service than in the hope—after the manner of those in love—of meeting with Mab Arden. During the reading of the lessons his eyes were roving here and there in search of that beloved face, but much to his dismay he could not see it. Finally, on a chair near a pillar, he caught sight of Miss Whichello in her poke bonnet and black silk cloak, but she was alone, and there were no bright eyes beside her to send a glance in the direction of George. Having ascertained beyond all doubt that Mab was not in the church, and believing that she was unwell after the shock of Jentham’s attack on the previous night, George withdrew his attention from the congregation, and settled himself to listen attentively to the anthem. It was worthy of the cathedral, and higher praise cannot be given. “I have blotted out as a thick cloud,” sang the boy soloist in a clear sweet treble, “I have blotted out thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.” Then came the triumphant cry of the choir, borne on the rich waves of sound rolling from the organ, “Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.” The lofty roof reverberated with the melodious thunder, and the silvery altoes pierced through the great volume of sound like arrows of song. “Return! Return! Return!” called the choristers louder and higher and clearer, and ended, with a magnificent burst of harmony, with the sublime proclamation, “The Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and glorified himself in Israel!” When the white-robed singers resumed their seats, the organ still continued to peal forth triumphant notes, which died away in gentle murmurs. It was like the passing by of a tempest; the stilling of the ocean after a storm.

Mr Cargrim preached the sermon, and, with a vivid recollection of his present enterprise, waxed eloquent on the ominous text, “Be sure thy sin will find thee out.” His belief that the bishop was guilty of some crime, for the concealment of which he intended to bribe Jentham, had been strengthened by an examination on that very morning of the cheque-book. Dr Pendle had departed on horseback for Southberry after an early breakfast, and after hurriedly despatching his own, Cargrim had hastened to the library. Here, as he expected, he found the cheque-book carelessly left in an unlocked drawer of the desk, and on looking over it he found that one of the butts had been torn out. The previous butt bore a date immediately preceding that of Dr Pendle’s departure for London, so Cargrim had little difficulty in concluding that the bishop had drawn the next cheque in London, and had torn out the butt to which it had been attached. This showed, as the chaplain very truly thought, that Dr Pendle was desirous of concealing not only the amount of the cheque—since he had kept no note of the sum on the butt—but of hiding the fact that the cheque had been drawn at all. This conduct, coupled with the fact of Jentham’s allusion to Tom Tiddler’s ground, and his ‘snatch of extempore song, confirmed Cargrim in his suspicions that Pendle had visited London for the purpose of drawing out a large sum of money, and intended to pay the same over to Jentham that very night on Southberry Heath. With this in his mind it was no wonder that Cargrim preached a stirring sermon. He repeated his warning text over and over again; he illustrated it in the most brilliant fashion; and his appeals to those who had secret sins, to confess them at once, were quite heartrending in their pathos. As most of his congregation had their own little peccadilloes to worry over, Mr Cargrim’s sermon made them quite uneasy, and created a decided sensation, much to his own gratification. If Bishop Pendle had only been seated on his throne to hear that sermon, Cargrim would have been thoroughly satisfied. But, alas! the bishop—worthy man—was confirming innocent sinners at Southberry, and thus lost any chance he might have had of profiting by his chaplain’s eloquence.

However, the congregation could not be supposed to know the secret source of the chaplain’s eloquence, and his withering denunciations were supposed to arise from a consciousness of his own pure and open heart. The female admirers of Cargrim particularly dwelt in after-church gossip on this presumed cause of the excellent sermon they had heard, and when the preacher appeared he was congratulated on all sides. Miss Tancred for once forgot her purse story, and absolutely squeaked, in the highest of keys, in her efforts to make the young man understand the amount of pleasure he had given her. Even Mrs Pansey was pleased to express her approval of so well chosen a text, and looked significantly at several of her friends as she remarked that she hoped they would take its warning to heart.

George came upon his father’s chaplain, grinning like a heathen idol, in the midst of a tempestuous ocean of petticoats, and the bland way in which he sniffed up the incense of praise showed how grateful such homage was to his vain nature. At that moment he saw himself a future bishop, and that at no very great distance of time. Indeed, had the election of such a prelate been in the hands of his admirers, he would have been elevated that very moment to the nearest vacant episcopalian throne. Captain Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest-worship.

“The sneaking cad!” he thought, sneering at the excellent Cargrim. “I dare say he thinks he is the greatest man in Beorminster just now. He looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

There was no love lost between the chaplain and the captain, for on several occasions the latter had found Cargrim a slippery customer, and lax in his notions of honour; while the curate, knowing that he had not been clever enough to hoodwink George, hated him with all the fervour and malice of his petty soul. However, he hoped soon to have the power to wound Captain Pendle through his father, so he could afford to smile blandly in response to the young soldier’s contemptuous look. And he smiled more than ever when brisk Miss Whichello, with her small face, ruddy as a winter apple, marched up and joined in the congratulations.

“In future I shall call you Boanerges, Mr Cargrim,” she cried, her bright little eyes dancing. “You quite frightened me. I looked into my mind to see what sins I had committed.”

“And found none, I’m sure,” said the courtly chaplain.

“You would have found one if you had looked long enough,” growled Mrs Pansey, who hated the old maid as a rival practitioner amongst the poor, “and that is, you did not bring your niece to hear the sermon. I don’t call such carelessness Christianity.”

“Don’t look at my sins through a microscope, Mrs Pansey. I did not bring Mab because she is not well.”

“Oh, really, dear Miss Winchello,” chimed in Daisy Norsham. “Why, I thought that your sweet niece looked the very picture of health. All those strong, tall women do; not like poor little me.”

“You need dieting,” retorted Miss Whichello, with a disparaging glance. “Your face is pale and pasty; if it isn’t powder, it’s bad digestion.”

“Miss Whichello!” cried the outraged spinster.

“I’m an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to speak my mind. I’m sure Mrs Pansey always does.”

“You need not be so very unpleasant! No, really!”

“The truth is always unpleasant,” said Mrs Pansey, who could not forbear a thrust even at her own guest, “but Miss Whichello doesn’t often hear it,” with a dig at her rival. “Come away, Daisy. Mr Cargrim, next time you preach take for your text, ‘The tongue is a two-edged sword.'”

“Do, Mr Cargrim,” cried Miss Whichello, darting an angry glance at Mrs Pansey, “and illustrate it with the one to whom it particularly applies.”

“Ladies! ladies!” remonstrated Cargrim, while both combatants ruffled their plumes like two fighting cocks, and the more timid of the spectators scuttled out of the way. How the situation would have ended it is impossible to say, as the two ladies were equally matched, but George saved it by advancing to greet Miss Whichello. When the little woman saw him, she darted forward and shook his hand with unfeigned warmth.

“My dear Captain Pendle,” she cried, “I am so glad to see you; and thank you for your noble conduct of last night.”

“Why, Miss Whichello, it was nothing,” murmured the modest hero.

“Indeed, I must say it was very valiant,” said Cargrim, graciously. “Do you know, ladies, that Miss Arden was attacked last night by a tramp and Captain Pendle knocked him down?”

“Oh, really! how very sweet!” cried Daisy, casting an admiring look on George’s handsome face, which appealed to her appreciation of manly beauty.

“What was Miss Arden doing to place herself in the position of being attacked by a tramp?” asked Mrs Pansey, in a hard voice. “This must be looked into.”

“Thank you, Mrs Pansey, I have looked into it myself,” said Miss Whichello. “Captain Pendle, come home with me to luncheon and tell me all about it; Mr Cargrim, you come also.”

Both gentlemen bowed and accepted, the former because he wished to see Mab, the latter because he knew that Captain Pendle did not want him to come. As Miss Whichello moved off with her two guests, Mrs Pansey exclaimed in a loud voice,—

“Poor young men! Luncheon indeed! They will be starved. I know for a fact that she weighs out the food in scales.” Then, having had the last word, she went home in triumph.