The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle at Monksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them was the master of the house.

Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his room and joined her. “Let me say one word,” he pleaded, “before we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so unfortunate as to offend you, last night.”

Emily’s look of astonishment answered for her before she could speak. “What can I have said or done,” she asked, “to make you think that?”

“Now I breathe again!” he cried, with the boyish gayety of manner which was one of the secrets of his popularity among women. “I really feared that I had spoken thoughtlessly. It is a terrible confession for a clergyman to make—but it is not the less true that I am one of the most indiscreet men living. It is my rock ahead in life that I say the first thing which comes uppermost, without stopping to think. Being well aware of my own defects, I naturally distrust myself.”

“Even in the pulpit?” Emily inquired.

He laughed with the readiest appreciation of the satire—although it was directed against himself.

“I like that question,” he said; “it tells me we are as good friends again as ever. The fact is, the sight of the congregation, when I get into the pulpit, has the same effect upon me that the sight of the footlights has on an actor. All oratory (though my clerical brethren are shy of confessing it) is acting—without the scenery and the costumes. Did you really mean it, last night, when you said you would like to hear me preach?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“How very kind of you. I don’t think myself the sermon is worth the sacrifice. (There is another specimen of my indiscreet way of talking!) What I mean is, that you will have to get up early on Sunday morning, and drive twelve miles to the damp and dismal little village, in which I officiate for a man with a rich wife who likes the climate of Italy. My congregation works in the fields all the week, and naturally enough goes to sleep in church on Sunday. I have had to counteract that. Not by preaching! I wouldn’t puzzle the poor people with my eloquence for the world. No, no: I tell them little stories out of the Bible—in a nice easy gossiping way. A quarter of an hour is my limit of time; and, I am proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) do to a certain extent keep awake. If you and the other ladies decide to honor me, it is needless to say you shall have one of my grand efforts. What will be the effect on my unfortunate flock remains to be seen. I will have the church brushed up, and luncheon of course at the parsonage. Beans, bacon, and beer—I haven’t got anything else in the house. Are you rich? I hope not!”

“I suspect I am quite as poor as you are, Mr. Mirabel.”

“I am delighted to hear it. (More of my indiscretion!) Our poverty is another bond between us.”

Before he could enlarge on this text, the breakfast bell rang.

He gave Emily his arm, quite satisfied with the result of the morning’s talk. In speaking seriously to her on the previous night, he had committed the mistake of speaking too soon. To amend this false step, and to recover his position in Emily’s estimation, had been his object in view—and it had been successfully accomplished. At the breakfast-table that morning, the companionable clergyman was more amusing than ever.

The meal being over, the company dispersed as usual—with the one exception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept his place at the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerate of men, felt it an attention due to his guest not to leave the room first. All that he could venture to do was to give a little hint. “Have you any plans for the morning?” he asked.

“I have a plan that depends entirely on yourself,” Mirabel answered; “and I am afraid of being as indiscreet as usual, if I mention it. Your charming daughter tells me you play on the violin.”

Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. “I hope you have not been annoyed,” he said; “I practice in a distant room so that nobody may hear me.”

“My dear sir, I am eager to hear you! Music is my passion; and the violin is my favorite instrument.”

Mr. Wyvil led the way to his room, positively blushing with pleasure. Since the death of his wife he had been sadly in want of a little encouragement. His daughters and his friends were careful—over-careful, as he thought—of intrud............