Chichester, dryly. "What a family yours is for honesty! your sister there is like a pane of glass."

Dym laughed and ran out of the room, on hospitable thoughts intent. Mr. Chichester, her unknown hero, the wonderful Mr. Latimer; it was too strange, too delightful altogether; and she had been nearly quarrelling with him, too, when all the time he had been Will's friend, who had helped him so. Dym felt she could never be sufficiently contrite.

When she had finished her little preparations-not forgetting to don her smartest ribbons in honour of the occasionDym went back to the sitting-room and marched up straight to Mr. Chichester.

"I have been thinking it all over, and I have so often wanted to thank you."

"To thank me, for what? I will thank you, presently, when you have given me some tea."

"I thought you were getting it ready, Dym."

"So I was; it will be here directly, Will; don't be impatient. But, Mr. Chichester, I cannot be happy till I have thanked you for all you have done for Will and St. Luke's. For what are you looking?" for Mr. Chichester, red in the face, was groping mysteriously under his chair.

"For

my hat; I think I have mislaid it."

"Here it is; take it away, Dym; hide it somewhere. You foolish girl, didn't I tell you Mr. Latimer hated gratitude?" "Was it that that was driving him away? Sit down, Mr. Chichester; you shall have your tea directly." And with much tact Dym bustled about, and, aided by her brother, soon produced a creditable enough looking meal, during the course of which Mr. Chichester gradually recovered his equanimity.

What a pleasant evening that was! the pleasantest, Dym thought, that she had ever spent. And before the end of it she had achieved one success-Mr. Chichester pronounced her a good listener. High praise from a clever man.

As a general rule, men prefer responsive to suggestive powers in a woman. A woman whose intellect is ambitious enough to emulate the other sex is rarely a favourite with either. The bright intelligence that can appreciate without deterioration, that can, if occasion require, sum up into brief review the salient points of an argument or a thing discussed,

—that can even weigh and judge its merits without obtruding contradiction and opinionativeness, this is justly prized by men; and a listener, be she an intelligent one, is worth half a score of clever talkers.

Dym could talk cleverly sometimes, but she loved better to listen, and especially to such men as Will and Guy Chiches ter, both men of no mean order of intellect. Mr. Chichester combined rare eloquence with much native shrewdness; his mode of speech was always abrupt, but now and then it would be startling; his discourse, when on most solemn subjects, would be varied by lightning-like flashes of metaphor or humor. Will was a more even speaker.

Both men talked well.

Guy Chichester was the more daring in his speculations; William Elliott felt more.

Dym, sitting by in unconscious criticism, thought Guy Chichester was far the grandest talker she had ever heard in her life; but Will's words came home nearest to her heart.

The priest prevailed over the layman; not by virtue of his office, truth compelling me to avow that Guy Chichester was a Broad Churchman, but simply because the priest had lived out his own convictions, not taught them simply.

And this was the secret of the strange bond that already bound these two men together-mutual respect on the one side developing into reverence, on the other into hero-worship, not unmixed with pity, for William Elliott had already discovered that Guy Chichester was his own enemy.

CHAPTER VII.

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HAPPY VALLEY

DYM had sufficient leisure to think over her pleasant evening, for Mr. Chichester never came near them for a whole week after this—nay, more, he was missing at the school.

Dym marvelled greatly over this sudden disappearance, but her brother took the matter more coolly. "You don't suppose we keep this sort of rara avis permanently at St. Luke's," he

said. "Very likely he has gone back to his own people, and forgotten all about us, till the next ill wind blows him southward again"-a random shot which on this occasion was toler ably wide of the mark; but Dym shook her head, and would not be convinced.

"He would have said good-by to us if he were not coming back," she persisted; and she looked up every time Will came in from his evening work, with the hope that Mr. Chichester was with him.

And, as usual, he appeared when she least expected him.

It was a very wet Sunday evening; there had been a ceaseless down-pour most of the afternoon, and only a small congregation, chiefly women and boys, had collected in the evening, in the hope of hearing the strange preacher, Mr. Ainslie had Mr. Elliott preached, even that scanty aggregate would have been diminished by at least one-third, for the parish of St. Luke's was not the most God-fearing and church-going parish in Kentish Town. Dym was standing up in a great square pew under the west window, singing at the top of her clear young voice, and watching the rain-drops patter against the glass. When the organ ceased, she almost fancied she could hear its rippling groans, and the soughing of the light summer wind in its branches; the heavy drops splashed outside. "Brief life is here our portion, brief sorrow, short-lived care "sang Dym. A hand from behind her came abruptly on her book, with an admonitory finger of caution-she was singing the wrong verse.

Dym's sweet contralto broke down altogether then. The old blind man at her side went quavering on, "The life that knows no ending;" a magnificent bass voice caught up the refrain, and carried it on. Dym had never heard the voice, but she knew the great brown hand, with the Oriental signet on the little finger. The sudden reproof abashed her; she did not get cool all the rest of the service.

She took the blind man out carefully, and found her unconscious tormentor waiting for her in the porch.

"Well, shall we go on, or shall we wait for your brother?" he demanded, unfurling a formidable-looking umbrella, after a glance of disdain at Dym's neat little gingham one. "Don't trouble yourself to open that; it will do for Edith's doll."

"I always wait for Will. Good-evening, Mr. Chichester,"

with a dignified little inclination of the head, which said, plainly, "We have not met before to-day, I believe."

"Oh, good-evening, Miss Elliott," lifting his hat, and making a profound salaam, which at once made Dym feel her observation was superfluous. "What creatures of habit we are-are we not? In strict accordance with the truth you ought to have said, 'A bad evening, Mr. Chichester;' but perhaps you only meant a more ceremonious way of saying, How do you do?''

Dym was glad that she had to bow to a chance acquaintance who was passing: it saved her the trouble of replying. When she looked round, Mr. Chichester had closed his umbrella again, and was thoughtfully engaged in probing the probable thickness of the flags. Dym, who felt every one was criticising her tall distinguished-looking companion, drew back further into the porch.

"Don't let me detain you," she whispered, nervously. Mr. Chichester was evidently in one of his unapproachable moods to-night, and Dym was a little afraid of her tête-à-tête.

"Our ways lie together," he replied. "How light it is still out here, in spite of the rain! The old Puritan who constructed that consecrated barn," nodding his head slightly towards the red-baize door, "has spoiled his best windows by that hideous gallery. No wonder you could not see to sing your hymn correctly."

"Oh, Mr. Chichester, how could you ?"

"What?" looking as innocent as a lamb on a large scale. "How could you startle me so? It put me out dreadfully." "To have a great brown paw laid on your book?" stretching it out mischievously. "Serves you right, Miss Elliott; you were torturing my ear needlessly."

"You ought to have been singing yourself. I don't pity you," a little defiantly.

Upon my honour, I am very sorry for you, though, Miss Elliott. Think of next Ash Wednesday-how uncomfortable you will feel during the Commination Service; leading that poor blind man all wrong, too."

Dym looked shocked.

"I suppose you can sing properly if you try."

"Will says so."

"What! Will Clericus! Never believe brothers, they are

such flatterers. Yes, you have a nice little lark-like voice, if you only cultivated it properly; the high notes were not satisfactory, though."

Dym inwardly resolved she would never sing in Mr. Chichester's presence again-a vow which circumstances soon obliged her to break.

"What a nice sermon Mr. Ainslie preached! Don't you think so?" trying to turn the conversation into a less personal channel.

"No, I don't," kicking the baize door lightly with his foot, and looking a little vexed.

"Why not?"

"Because now, Miss Elliott, don't you know I hate criticising sermons.'

"Do you? How could I know? Ah, there is Will, and Mr. Ainslie with him. You will be glad of that; won't you, Mr. Chichester?"

"You will, you mean. It struck me we were rather boring cach other;" a bit of honesty which somehow chilled Dym.

She walked home in silence, under the shelter of the big umbrella, between her brother and Mr. Chichester. Will had to warn her sometimes of the deep puddles. The meeting had disappointed her. Instinctively she felt Mr. Chichester's manner had a little changed-it was less genial and more authoritative. Somehow, even during the time she was Edith's governess, she had never before realized the great distance between them. Afterwards she understood that Guy Chichester had set up this slight barrier intentionally, though such was the man's unconventionality that he was often the first to break it down.

At their door he shook hands, and wished them good-night. "What! you are not coming in ?" asked Will, in surprise. "No, my dear fellow; no, not to-night. I have an appointment down due west; my cousin Beatrix has invited me to a family council."

"Then why in the world did you tramp down here in the wet?" persisted his friend, laying a detaining hand on his arm. "Not to hear Mr. Ainslie preach-no, nor you either, so don't expect a compliment. I came to deliver this;" taking a letter carefully from his breast-pocket, and handing it to Dym. "For me?"