claret when he drank anything. His flock were friendly enough, and
paid their commuted tithes without grumbling. But between them and
a perfectly well-meaning but rather dull man, who stood on his
dignity and wore a black coat all the week, there was no real
community. Rejoice in it as we may, in this final passage of Parson
Primrose to social regions beyond the ken of Farmer Flamborough,
there are some elements of loss as there are in all changes.

Wheels on the road! Mrs. Thornburgh woke up with a start, and
stumbling over newspaper and _couvre-pied_, hurried across the lawn
as fast as her short, squat figure would allow, gray curls and
cap-strings flying behind her. She heard a colloquy in the distance
in broad Westmoreland dialect, and as she turned the corner of the
house she nearly ran into her tall cook, Sarah, whose impassive and
saturnine countenance bore traces of unusual excitement.

'Missis, there's naw cakes. They're all left behind on t' counter
at Randall's. Mr. Backhouse says as how he told old Jim to go fur
'em, and he niver went, and Mr. Backbouse he niver found oot till
he'd got past t' bridge, and than it wur too late to go back.'

Mrs. Thornburgh stood transfixed, something of her fresh pink color
slowly deserting her face as she realized the enormity of the
catastrophe. And was it possible that there was the faintest twinkle
of grim satisfaction on the face of that elderly minx, Sarah?

Mrs. Thornburgh, however, did, not stay to explore the recesses of
Sarah's mind, but ran with little pattering, undignified steps
across the front garden and down the steps to where Mr. Backhouse,
the carrier, stood, bracing himself for self-defense.