"Come along,—come along! Don't stand there, Bob Keeley!" And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated—"What is it?"
Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.
"From Sir Morton, please sir! Hurgent, 'e sez."
Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bearing the words 'Badsworth Hall' stamped in gold at the back of the envelope. Opening it, he read:
"Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Reverend John Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests staying with him at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day and hour this week he can make a visit of inspection to the church with his friends."
A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden's face. Presently he smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the fragments into one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a shred of paper on his lawn or garden paths was an offence which neither he nor any of those he employed ever committed.
"How is your mother, Bob?" he then said, approaching the stumpy urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and awaiting his pleasure.
"Please sir, she's all right, but she coughs 'orful!"
"Coughs 'orful, does she?" repeated the Reverend John, musingly; "Ah, that is bad!—I am sorry! We must—let me think!—yes, Bob, we must see what we can do for her—eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and round and wondering what 'Passon' was thinking about to have such a 'funny look' in his eyes.