Mr Fairman stopped at the first house in the village--the prettiest of
the half dozen myrtle-covered cottages before alluded to. Here he tapped
softly, and a gentle foot that seemed to know the visitor hastened to
admit him.

"Well, Mary," said the minister, glancing round the room--a clean and
happy-looking room it was--"where's Michael?"

"He is gone, sir, as you bade him, to make it up with Cousin Willett. He
couldn't rest easy, sir, since you told him that it was no use coming to
church so long as he bore malice. He won't be long, sir."

Mr Fairman smiled; and cold as his grey eye might be, it did not seem so
steady now.

"Mary, that is good of him; tell him his minister is pleased. How is
work with him?"

"He has enough to do, to carry him to the month's end, sir."

"Then at the month's end, Mary, let him come to the parsonage. I have
something for him there. But we can wait till then. Have you seen the
itinerary preacher since?"

"It is not his time, sir. He didn't promise to come till Monday week."

"Do neither you nor Michael speak with him, nor listen to his public
preachings. I mean, regard him not as one having authority. I speak
solemnly, and with a view to your eternal peace. Do not forget."