leaning back with half-closed eyes, and neatly
putting his fingers together and taking them
away again—"now, what can we do for you?
Come."

Then she began. He was in a high-backed,
old-fashioned chair, that seemed all made of
knobs strung like beads. He was buried in it.
The room was gloomy, and it seemed like a
Cattermole picture—a Mediæval Bishop about
to hear a Confession. The pictures of Past
Deans—from Clutterbuck, S. T. P., "Dec hujus
Cath. Nat. 1697—ob. 1784," to the dean's
predecessor, "Forsyth, S. T. P."—looked down. But
as she touched the name of Norbury, the smooth,
limpid smile passed from his face, and his fingers
came together and parted, and came together
again, and his eyes settled obliquely on Clutterbuck,
S. T. P. It was hard to resist that penitent.
He was a kind, courteous dignitary, and
had mixed in good society. But "My dear Sir
Thomas" was on the table there before him—a
stern reminder.

"My dear child," he said, "it is wholly out
of the question. Not to be thought of for a
moment. If it were some one, now, in my own
employment, say an agent, or something of that
sort, we might do something of what you wish.
But, alas! I am only a trustee—a trustee
here." And his fingers played carelessly with
"My dear Sir Thomas." How she pleaded!
How she sued, in the most musical of voices
and piteous of expressions! How she put forward
the hopeless, helpless wife, and the crowd of
children, may be conceived. The dean was
really a humane man, and was a little distressed
at the picture. "What can we do?" he asked,
remonstratively. "The man has brought it on
himself. The man has long been a scandal to
the place—a drinking, billiard-playing fellow.
No, indeed, no, Miss Ada; I am a trustee here."
(And Sir Thomas, too, had his eye upon him.)

Rarely had she to ask and be refused. But
here she was to fail. Suddenly a figure
appeared at the many-paned windows—a figure
with a large pink face, and large grey
moustaches. It tapped musically on the panes, and
tried to raise the window.

"God bless me," said the dean, looking round.
"Colonel Whitaker come to call on me. I
think, Miss Millwood, you may find the ladies
upstairs. Very sorry to refuse you." The colonel
had got the window open, and had stepped into
the room.

"Running away, who's that? Miss Millwood,
isn't it? Come back at once."

"You know Miss Millwood?" said the dean,
in the same surprise.

"To be sure. I know every pretty girl. (I
shouldn't like Mrs. Whitaker to know of that
speech. Mum.) Well, and how is Tilney, and
all that? He looks a little down, I think." The
dean did not know of the acquaintance between
the great Colonel Whitaker of the Horse Guards
and Miss Millwood.

"And now," said Colonel Whitaker, sitting
down, "I should just like to know—to put one
question—what is the business on which I find
a pretty young lady closeted in this way with
an eminent dignitary of the Church, in the prime
of life, and very fair indeed as to his appearance?"
The dean smiled and passed his hand fondly
down his black stocking, as if that part of him
was in the prime of life too, and deserved some
praise. Something like an inspiration darted
into her head.

"Shall I tell, Mr. Dean?" she said, summoning
smiles and even coquetry to her aid. "O yes,
you must let me, and allow Colonel Whitaker
to decide between us. Do. I won't begin
without your leave though, Mr. Dean."

"Which he won't refuse," said the colonel.
"Let me hear it—let me be judge-advocate. By
the way, I hear there is a poor devil of a singing
fellow with a wife and a string of children
to be drummed out of the garrison?"

"That was it!" said Ada, eagerly. "The very
thing, Colonel Whitaker. The dean does not
know what to do. Between duty and what he
owes to the Church, and sympathy and his own
kind heart, I can fancy the struggle. And it
is not fair to ask him. But still, Colonel
Whitaker, that poor sick woman, and all the
little children!"

The dean blushed a little as his eye fell upon
"My dear Sir Thomas."

"Come," said Colonel Whitaker; "to be sure!
He must do anything that you—or I—ask him.
Hallo!"

The door opened softly, and one of the canons
put in his head, but withdrew it hastily, and
with signs of terror.

"What is this?" said the dean, angrily. "Mr.
Dumferline, come back here, sir. What is your
business, sir? Who showed you up?"

"It was only in—I came to say—as I thought
the matter urgent. But you are engaged," said
the alarmed Dumferline.

"What is it? Speak out," said the dean,
testily. " As you have said so much—"

"It was only old Dr. Sterne, sir," said the
canon. "He was much worse last night; and
the doctor said that he could not last very
long—"

"You are early in the field, Mr. Dumferline,"
said the dean, sarcastically.

"No, indeed, sir. I was at his bedside, and
he said if you could spare him a few minutes
later in the day, it would be a comfort and—"

"O, of course," said the dean; "quite so.
Later. In a moment. And is that your business?
Of course, whatever is usual and proper,
will be done. That will do."

Here was a new element. Ada, with the light
of the angels from the cathedral in her face,
seized on it. "O, then you will at least wait,
Mr. Dean"—and her hands went up
suppliantly, by a sort of instinct—"a few days only
—to see how this may turn out."

"The very thing!" cried the colonel,
enthusiastically. "How old is this old canon?"

"Eighty-four or five," said the dean.

"Then there you have the whole programme.
Oblige me, as a favour, now. Spare this poor
vagabond with the child and wives—I mean, with