Their ring at the bell was answered by a
tall footman, whose gorgeous appearance
made Mary blush for her own splashed
stockings and her father's threadbare coat.
But he was affable, though "not sure
that his master was at home," and on hearing
that they came on business, he gave
them over to a still more sublime personage
out of livery, who, having taken Mr. Mackworth's
card, conducted them through a
small carpeted hall and long passage, and
left them in the library.

                  CHAPTER IV.

IT seemed to Mary Mackworth as if she
had suddenly entered a different world:
a world of soft carpets and sweet perfumes,
and warm summer air: the sort of world
which such creatures as Cilla ought naturally
to inhabit, but which was quite out of
keeping with her own muddy boots and
dank cloak, and with the untidy state to
which the winter wind had reduced her
bonnet and hair. She was glad to see a
mirror in which she could arrange those
fluttering ribbons and rebellious locks.
A very few touches made her feel tidy
again, so she rested quite content, though
not at all aware that she was looking
much more than tidy, and that her three
miles uphill walk, through wind and cold,
had given a glow to her gipsy colouring,
and a brightness to her clear dark eyes,
which made her, for the moment, quite
sparklingly pretty.

Her father walked to and fro, admiring
and approving.

"Very nice! Very nice! Thorough good
taste this man must have. All new and
fresh, and yet grafted so cleverly on the
style of the old place, that there is no jarring
in the fitness of things. And all the old
books here, I see, and well cared for now!
Not as it used to be in Hathaway's time,
when it was enough to break one's heart to
see the way in which they were used."

His speech, which was almost a soliloquy,
broke off as the door opened, and Mary
started to her feet and well-nigh exclaimed
aloud with surprise, as she found herself
face to face not with the portly middle-aged
banker whom she had expected to see,
but with her unknown friend, the hero of
the Hansom cab!

The recognition was mutual, for he started
and coloured almost as vehemently as Mary;
while the curate, at a total loss to account
for these manifestations, stared from one to
the other in blank astonishment.

Mary was the first to recover self-possession.
"I am very glad to see you," she
said, holding out her hand. "Papa, this is
the gentleman I told you of, who was so
very kind to me when I was caught in the
snow."

"I am very glad to have this opportunity
of thanking you," said Mr. Mackworth,
"and I must apologise too for paying you
a business visit on Sunday: but I
considered it a case of necessity. I think Mr.
Langley advertised some days ago for a
parcel which, I fear, must have been lost on
the occasion when you were so good-natured
to my daughter."

"Yes, I did advertise," said the gentleman.
"I am Mr. Langley," he added with a
smile, as he saw that both father and daughter
looked bewildered. "I advertised and
offered a reward. Five hundred pounds."

"The reward will not be necessary," said
Mr. Mackworth, as he put his hand in his
breast-pocket. "I beg your pardon," he
added, hesitating, "perhaps I ought to ask
you to describe the contents."

"Ten notes of one thousand pounds
each. I can't tell you the relief of getting
them back. Thank you a thousand times!
It is much more than my carelessness
deserves."

The curate held his tongue: if he had
spoken his thoughts, he would have said
"Just so!" Perhaps his face expressed
something of the kind, for when the bank-notes
had been counted over and locked up,
Mr. Langley attempted an apologetic sort
of explanation.

"You mustn't suppose that I was such a
fool as to leave the money in the cab while I
went in at Grueby's," he said; "I thought it
safer in my hand than in my pocket, and I
had just put it on the seat before getting in
when the sudden snow-storm attracted my
attention, — and" — he hesitated.

"And then you were so kind as to take
pity on me," said Mary, and the curate
smiled as he murmured some commonplace
about virtue not being its own reward.

"And now, Mary, my dear," he said to
his daughter, "we had better be setting off
homewards; it is getting dusk already, and
we must be back for our evening service."

"Oh! No," said the banker, warmly; "do
pray take a cup of tea before you go; my
sister will be extremely glad to make your
acquaintance. And you must really let me
send you home in the brougham. I don't
generally have it out on Sunday, really," he
added, as he read some disapproval of the
ready offer in the curate's face; "but this
is an exceptional case you said so yourself,
and I do hope you will let me have the
pleasure of sending you back in it."