mid-air; and, set in the dusky hedge, the little green fires of the
glowworms appeared. He sauntered slowly up the lane, drinking in the
religion of the scene, and thinking the country by night as mystic and
wonderful as a dimly-lit cathedral. He had quite forgotten the "manly
young fellows" and their sports, and only wished as the land began to
shimmer and gleam in the moonlight that he knew by some medium of words
or color how to represent the loveliness about his way.

"Had a pleasant evening, Lucian?" said his father when he came in.

"Yes, I had a nice walk home. Oh, in the afternoon we played cricket. I
didn't care for it much. There was a boy named De Carti there; he is
staying with the Dixons. Mrs. Dixon whispered to me when we were going in
to tea, 'He's a second cousin of Lord De Carti's,' and she looked quite
grave as if she were in church."

The parson grinned grimly and lit his old pipe.

"Baron De Carti's great-grandfather was a Dublin attorney," he remarked.
"Which his name was Jeremiah M'Carthy. His prejudiced fellow-citizens
called him the Unjust Steward, also the Bloody Attorney, and I believe
that 'to hell with M'Carthy' was quite a popular cry about the time of
the Union."

Mr. Taylor was a man of very wide and irregular reading and a tenacious
memory; he often used to wonder why he had not risen in the Church. He
had once told Mr. Dixon a singular and _drolatique_ anecdote concerning
the bishop's college days, and he never discovered why the prelate did
not bow according to his custom when the name of Taylor was called at the
next visitation. Some people said the reason was lighted candles, but