a 'Gloire' rose near the drawing-room window that wants cutting back
a bit." He moved a step or two, then again turned: "I shall want you
later on in the orchard,--the grass there needs attending to."

A slow grin pervaded Bainton's countenance.

"Ye minds me of the 'Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely now!" he
said--"Wi' all yer different orders an' idees, y'are behavin' to me
like the very moral o' the livin' Wurrd!"

Walden looked amused.

"How do you make that out?"

"Easy enough, sir,--'The Scripter moveth us in sun'ry places'! Hor!-
hor!-hor!--"and Bainton burst into a hoarse chuckle of mirth,
entirely delighted with his own witticism, and walked off, not
waiting to see whether its effect on his master was one of offence
or appreciation. He was pretty sure of his ground, however, for he
left John Walden laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with
some of the sunshine stored up in his mind. And the sparkle of mirth
still lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the
seat where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated
by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the apple-
blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding to his study
sat down and wrote the following brief epistle:

"The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton
Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, as the church is
always open and free, Sir Morton and his friends can 'inspect' it at