well for at least ONE occasion, to go away for the summer without
asking his congregation to pay for his trip. It was generous on his
part, almost noble.

The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made him socks,
comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of the like
description to recall their sweet memories to his saintly mind
during his absence from their society. But, truth to tell, Mr.
Dyceworthy gave little thought to these fond and regretful fair
ones; he was much too comfortable at Bosekop to look back with any
emotional yearning to the ugly, precise little provincial town he
had left behind him. The minister's quaint, pretty house suited him
perfectly; the minister's servants were most punctual in their
services: the minister's phaeton conveniently held his cumbrous
person, and the minister's pony was a quiet beast, that trotted
good-temperedly wherever it was guided, and shied at nothing. Yes,
he was thoroughly comfortable,--as comfortable as a truly pious fat
man deserves to be, and all the work he had to do was to preach
twice on Sundays, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered
congregation, who listened to his words respectfully though without
displaying any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not
affect him,--he preached to please himself,--loving above all things
to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as when
thundering fierce denunciations against the Church of Rome. His
thoughts seemed tending in that direction now, as he poured himself
out his third cup of tea and smilingly shook his head over it, while
he stirred the cream and sugar in,--for he took from his waistcoat
pocket a small glittering object and laid it before him on the
table, still shaking his head and smiling with a patient, yet
reproachful air of superior wisdom. It was a crucifix of mother-o'-