“Yes, I remember you,” said Dexter. “You called me a stupid boy because I couldn’t say all of I desire.”
“Did I? Ah, to be sure, I remember. Well, but you are not stupid now. I dare say, if I asked you, you would remember every word.”
“Don’t think I could,” said the boy; “it’s the hardest bit in the Cat.”
“But I’m not going to ask you,” said the Vicar. “Miss Grayson here will examine you, I’m sure. There, good day. Good day, Miss Grayson;” and, to Helen’s great relief, he shook hands with both. “And I’m to ask you not to throw stones in the churchyard,” he added, shaking his stick playfully. “My windows easily break.”
He nodded and smiled again, as Helen and her young companion went on, watching them till they had passed through the further gate and disappeared.
“A mischievous young rascal!” he said to himself. “I believe I should have given him the stick if it had been anybody else.”
As he said this, he walked down a side path which led past the tomb that had formed Dexter’s target.
“I dare say he has chipped the urn,” he continued, feeling exceedingly vexed, as a Vicar always does when he finds any wanton defacement of the building and surroundings in his charge.
“No,” he said aloud, and in a satisfied tone, “unhurt. But tut—tut—tut—tut! what tiresome young monkeys boys are!”
He turned back, and went thoughtfully toward the town.