got down the Lord Rooksby, and learning,
moreover, from her friend and accomplice, Doctor
Topham, that the famous "Right Honourable
Frederick Topham" could spare twenty-four
hours from the Treasury, and was flying down to
his brother on some family business, for that
time only, thought it would be a splendid idea to
exhibit these two luminaries in combination, and
concerted measures for that purpose with Doctor
Topham. That despot also thought it would
be a good idea, and entered into it, agreeing
to let out his distinguished relative for that
night. And very soon it became known that
there was to be a great dinner-party at the
deanery, with a faint rumour, to which, in some
bosoms, hope was father, that the crowd might
be admitted in "the evening" to a railed-off
place, whence they might gaze their fill at the
splendid strangers. At first no details of any
authentic value could be got at, but soon the
idle vapours took shape and consistency, and it
became known for a certainty—the earliest news
was had from the pastrycook, who had received
instructions, the significance of which there was
no mistaking—that the two strangers would be
"shown" together, first at a dinner, then in a more
promiscuous way, when the doors would be
opened to a mixed crowd. Then came the heart-
burnings and almost misery; for as to being
admitted directly into the more heavenly
mansions of the dining-room, they were not so
infatuated as to dream of that; but even for that
privilege of being allowed to stand afar off, and
contemplate the beatific vision, there would be
eager competition.

From afar off, across the common, the long
lanky windows could be seen lighted up. The
festival was known, and the selection of guests
caused bitter heart-burnings. Asking every
stall in the cathedral, that was absurd; and
when it was considered that every stall held a
wife and large family, the thing became more
absurd still. Some of the excluded came privily,
and skulked about the common to watch the
festivities they could not share in.

The dean's noble brother, Lord Rooksby, stood
behind; not in any reserved place, with a railing
round him, or in an exhibitor's case—but simply
as any other man in the room. He was very tall,
had grey hair, and a dried yellow face, which he
kept very high, and well thrown back, and was
explaining quietly to the archdeacon and Doctor
Topham, who had dined, "what now the Church
really wanted." As the Tilney party entered in
a long file, the whole room, with its lamps,
seemed in a state of rest and happiness, reposing
after the state dinner, and content with the
beatific vision of the nobleman who had "come
among them."

There was to be music. Mrs. Ridley had
ordered some of the choir serfs to attend. These
gathered behind the piano, and herded together
for mutual protection, waiting until they should
be wanted. They were caged until their voices
were set free and allowed to spring. Mr. Hart
was there, the dreadful bass, the Polypheme of
the choir, with a beard and whiskers like a deep
black cactus, suggesting an awful idea of vocal
strength. There was also Mr. Yokel, the counter-
tenor, and Doctor Fugle, the seraphic tenor, but
now without his seraphim's robe, and looking
anything but spiritual. In his stall, with the robe
on, with an indistinct hint as of wings folded up
behind, he was, so to speak, carried off. But
here, behind the piano, he was revealed as a
rather coarse, oily-cheeked, large-whiskered, and
very earthy being.

The Tilney girls sat down, a little desponding
from this gloomy state of things; for the
horizon being darkened with great black
ecclesiastical firs and cypresses, did not promise
much. They sat round and waited. Mr.
Tilney, who had an aptitude for "getting
on," now recollected his old arts, got into his old
social armour, and had presently secured Lord
Rooksby by an allusion to a fellow-equerry whom
his lordship had also known. Minor canons
looked on from afar at this wonderful instance of
the power of knowledge.

Both the great lights were present, who divided
popular admiration. The public might regard the
dean's brother, of whom they had heard so much,
with curiosity; but they looked with awe, and
a yet greater interest, on that Doctor Topham,
that very Czar of the little place, who was known
to rule the men and women, the high and low,
and almost dispose of their persons and chattels
with a despotism that was frightful. And there
beside him was the Right Honourable Frederick,
a spare gentleman, with a stearine face,
in a little group of his own, explaining something
with extraordinary fluency and volubility. The
crowd looked on with wonder at these two little
groups, and saw with mysterious awe Doctor
Topham pass from one to the other indifferently,
and assert his rude roughshod supremacy over
the Lord Rooksby himself, by noisily, and with
angry language, telling him the "wretched state"
of things here, and that the whole chapter wanted
a sound "purging."

Presently Doctor Fugle, and some half-dozen of
the pariahs confined behind the piano, fell into
line without leaving their prison, and began some
"part singing."

Under cover of this entertainment, which
seemed the signal for easy and fluent conversation,
Mr. Tillotson drew near to Miss Millwood
before whom a youthful and bashful vicar-choral
was standing up and talking. The golden hair
gleamed under the lights. There was a soft
melancholy in her face. She heard the vicar-
choral, but with a degree of attention that could
not have been very flattering to that gentleman,
who unjustly set down her distraction to quite
another reason. "That old Tilney," he told a
brother choralist, going home, "introduced her
to the lord, and it quite upset her." But the lord,
to Mr. Tilney's great pride, had asked him
who was that "remarkable-looking young
woman over there, who had really quite an air