way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the
conclusion he said, "Must tell Hester."

At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not
fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the
sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It
was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two
engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were
by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a
connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the
word.

"Sit here a moment," said the sexton, pointing to a chair, "I'll go and
speak to Hester."

Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of "The
Pilgrim's Progress," which lay on the table.

In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It
was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable
gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written
PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been
a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive
than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such
she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her
contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of
children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully
shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.

"Home so soon?" said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.