only its remotest echoes there; yet they prided themselves upon adhering
strictly to rules of behaviour which in their mother-country had already
fallen into the grave of outgrown ideas. Their little society was,
indeed, a curious thing, in which the mincing propriety of the Old World
had wed itself right loyally to the stern necessity of the New. How
stern such necessity might be, the Rexford family, who came rolling into
this state of things in their own family carriage, had yet to learn.

It was to the Principalship of the New College that Robert Trenholme, by
virtue of scholastic honours from Oxford, had attained. Although a young
man for the post, it was admitted by all that he filled it admirably.
The school had increased considerably in the three years of his
management. And if Trenholme adapted himself to the place, the place was
also adapted to him, for by it he held an assured standing in the
country; he could, as the saying is, mix with the best; and he valued
his position. Why should he not value it? He had won it honourably, and
he cherished it merely as the greatest of his earthly goods, which he
believed he held in due subordination to more heavenly benefits. Those
lives are no doubt the most peaceful in which self-interest and duty
coalesce, and Trenholme's life at this period was like a fine cord,
composed of these two strands twisted together with exquisite equality.
His devotion to duty was such as is frequently seen when a man of
sanguine, energetic temperament throws the force of his being into
battle for the right. He had added to his school duties voluntary
service in the small English church of Chellaston, partly because the
congregation found it hard to support a clergyman; partly because he
preferred keeping his schoolboys under the influence of his own sermons,
which were certainly superior to those of such clergymen as were likely
to come there; and partly, if not chiefly, because the activity of his
nature made such serving a delight to him. The small church, like the