"There is a difference between him and Mr. Hall," observed Lady Burmester.
"Yes; was he not interesting yesterday? I shall not soon forget that wonderful church on the verge of the precipice. One feels that one knows the true meaning of sermons in stones when you have heard him talk of Ilberston. He knows every stone in his church, and every heart in his parish."
* * * * * * * *
It was on Monday that Alfred Dow, riding down the Dale, came, as he passed the inn, upon Millie as she stood in the road with her cousins, waiting for Tommy, who had gone into the Post Office.
He promptly dismounted, and Melicent, her face brightening, proceeded to shake hands cordially, the girls looking on, divided between horror and interest. This was in the sight of the sun; for the inn, and the cluster of cottages known as Church Houses, composed the only nucleus the village could be said to possess; and everyone was looking on.
Upon this scene the vicar came, emerging from a vexatious interview with a stiff-necked churchwarden; and he was not pleased.
His manner, as he greeted his nonconforming parishioner, was congealed. His voice, with its inward stillness, frightened his daughters.
"Now, Mr. Cooper, I want you to let all your young ladies come up to tea with my mother at Crow Gate." He called it, in local speech, Crow Yat. "Let 'em come an' see t' ponies an' t' foal an' t' calves, an' taste mother's damson gin, for we've a drop left yet. Let this lady bring 'em, if she'll be so kind. Let's see"—he raised his cap and scratched his curly poll. "To-day's Monday. Suppose we said Thursday. An' we'll hear more o' they Boers," he added mischieviously, to Millie.
"If Mrs. Dow is kind enough to second your invitation, perhaps she would write direct to Mrs. Cooper," said the vicar, still more gelid. "I cannot say what her plans are for this week."
Dow turned slightly away, looked down at Millie, and deliberately shut one eye. Yet she could see that he was angry too.