Miss Blake carried her point. In a very short space of time the little way-side room in the ruins--call it chapel, school-room, barn, what you will--was converted into a church and styled "St. Jerome." Setting to work at once with a will, Miss Blake had left not a stone unturned to accomplish her purpose. She pressed several of the young ladies in the village into the service. Nothing loth, they. Having heard of the divers merits of the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, they could but be desirous so shining a light should be secured amidst them. Miss Blake herself brought all her rare energy, her unflagging perseverance to the task. When she took a cause to heart, no woman was so indomitable as she. As may readily be supposed, a good deal had to be done to the room before it could be made what was wanted; but contrivance worked wonders. All the money Miss Blake could spare she freely applied: it was not sufficient, and she wrote to sundry friends, begging contributions. She next went, with Miss St. Henry and Miss Moore, to some of the houses in the vicinity, to every one where it might be safe to go, asking for aid. This personal canvass was not always successful. Some professed not to understand why a second church was required, and gave shillings instead of pounds. One old lady, however, had her generous instincts so worked upon by the eloquence of Miss Blake (as much as she could hear of it, for she was very deaf, and her companion declared afterwards that she believed all the while she was giving to a new industrial school possessing a resident chaplain) that she handed over a cheque for fifty guineas. Miss Blake could not believe her eyes when she saw it: and she assured the old lady that every blessing of heaven would be showered down on her in return. Miss Blake\'s personal friends also contributed well--and the matter was accomplished. Not only was the chapel itself set up, but the stipend of Mr. Cattacomb assured for the first few months. To do Miss Blake justice, she wished all things to be religiously right, and she never entertained a doubt that the place had once been duly consecrated. Her whole heart was in the work--always excepting a slight small corner of it that was still filled with her wrongs and Karl Andinnian.

The early afternoon sun shone down on the bright flowers, the well kept lawns of Foxwood Court, as Miss Blake stepped out of one of its windows, her walking costume perfect. She was always well dressed: but to-day her toilet was more elaborate than usual. Standing for a moment to look round at the beautiful place, at its complete order, there rose up in her heart one wild, angry thought--"But for Lucy, this would have been my own." A very mistaken assumption on Miss Blake\'s part, but who was to convince her of that? Banishing the thought resolutely, she walked along at a brisk pace, as if running a race with time. It was a great day this. Two events were coming off in it that stirred Miss Blake to the core. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb was expected by the four o\'clock train; and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian would arrive at home for dinner.

Miss Blake took the way to St. Jerome\'s Church, a very choice bouquet of hothouse flowers in her hand. Glancing at the gate of the Maze--in regard to which place her interest had not in the least abated--she bore onwards, and soon joined some groups of ladies, who were advancing to St. Jerome\'s by the more direct route from the village. They had appointed to meet that afternoon and put the finishing touches to the room ere it should be seen by its pastor-- if indeed any touches remained to be done. A matter such as this could not but have excited much comment at Foxwood ever since the first day that Miss Blake took it in hand. Prudent mothers, full of occupation themselves, warned their daughters against being "led away." The daughters, whose hands were idle, rushed to the new attraction, stealthily at first, openly afterwards. They grew to be as energetic as Miss Blake herself, and were in a fervour of eagerness for the arrival of Mr. Cattacomb.

Miss Blake opened the door and allowed the rest to file in. She stayed looking at something that did not please her--a wheel-barrow full of earth lodging right against St. Jerome\'s outside walls.

"I should not wonder but it\'s that Tom Pepp who has left it there!" said Miss Blake severely. "The boy is for ever dodging about here--and brings other boys in his train. When Mr. Cattacomb----"

"Good afternoon, madam!"

Miss Blake turned at the address, and recognized Mr. Smith--his green spectacles on and his arm in a sling as usual. She had seen him once or twice since that first meeting, but he had only bowed in passing.

"May I be permitted to enter?" he asked, waving his hand at the church door.

"Oh, certainly," she replied. "Indeed I hope you will become one of St. Jerome\'s constant worshippers." So he went in with the crowd of ladies.

It certainly looked a sweet little place--as Jane St. Henry remarked aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls--for Miss Blake knew exactly what would please Mr. Cattacomb. The common whitewashed walls were nearly hidden: mottoes, a painting or two, and prints lay thickly on them, all of course of a sacred character. The plain, straw-seated chairs stood pretty thickly. The other arrangements were as good as funds, time, and space had allowed. Leading off on one side at the upper end, was a small vestry; with a sort of corner box in it that was to serve as a confessional. This vestry--which used to be the place where The school children put their hats and bonnets--had an objectionable, modern window in it; before which was hung a blind of printed calico, securing the vestry\'s privacy from sun and gazers.

Mr. Smith might have been a travelled man, but in all his travels he had seen no place of worship like unto this. He was saying so to himself as he turned and gazed about through his green glasses. He took them off and gazed again.

"Is it not charming, sir?" asked Jane St. Henry.

"It is rather small," was the response.

"Oh, that\'s the worst," said the young lady. "One cannot have everything at the beginning: there must always be some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much larger than this, where there are three sweet little private sanctuaries: here we have only one."

"Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not understanding.

"Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry."

"Oh, then the place is Roman Catholic!" said Mr. Smith, quietly. "I thought so."

He had no intention to offend: it was simply what he inferred: but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her two hands to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a free, showy girl, stepped up.

"For goodness\' sake don\'t call it that," she said. "Papa would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does."

Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help thinking this was a daughter of the vicar of the old church, but was not sure: and he wondered much.

Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined St. Jerome\'s. They and their mother had long set the vicar at defiance.

Foxwood was deemed to be a particularly healthy place; in the summer months, invalids were wont to resort to it from the neighbouring town of Basham. To meet requirements, lodgings being scarce, a row of houses had been run up in the heart of the village, near where the old pound used to stand. They were called Paradise Row. Very pretty to look at; perhaps not quite so good to wear; stuccoed white fronts outside, lath and plaster within. If the door of one banged, the whole of the houses shook; and the ringing of a sitting-room bell was heard right and left throughout the Row.

It was in the middle house of these favoured dwellings, No. 5, kept by Mrs. Jinks, that the ladies had secured apartments for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The bow-windowed front parlour, and the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks, familiarly called by her neighbours and friends the Widow Jinks, was beyond the middle age--to speak politely--with a huge widow\'s cap nearly as black as the chimney, and a huge black bonnet generally tilted on the top of it. She had deemed herself very lucky to find her rooms taken by the ladies for the new clergyman, boasting to her neighbours that it was of course a "permanent let:" but before the clergyman arrived, she had grown somewhat out of conceit of the "let," so worried was she by the young ladies. Parties of them were always calling, bringing this, that, and the other for the comfort of their expected pastor, and calling the Widow Jinks to the door a dozen times in a day.

Upon leaving St. Jerome\'s this afternoon, the ladies went in a body to Paradise Row, intending to await the advent of the Reverend Guy, and to see that butter and other essentials had been got in for him. Miss Blake could have dispensed with so large a party--but what was she to do?--There they were, and stuck to her. All the way to the house they had been talking of Mr. Smith; wondering who he was and why he had come to live at Foxwood. Miss St. Henry at length remembered to have heard he was a friend of the Andinnian family, and had been looking after things as agent during the absence of Sir Karl.

"An agent!" exclaimed Miss Blake, drawing herself up.

"Not a common agent, of course. Does what he does out of friendship. Here we are."

"Oh, that\'s very different," returned Miss Blake, giving a loud, long, important knock at the Widow Jinks\'s door.

"Well, that is a shame of old Jinks!" cried Jemima Moore, in an undertone to the rest as they got admittance and went into the parlour.

For the Widow Jinks had not deemed it necessary to smarten herself up to receive her new lodger. She answered the door in her ordinary working costume: rusty black gown, huge cap, and bonnet. Her face and hands were black too, as if she had been disturbed in cleaning the pots and kettles.

"She ought to be told of it. And did you see how sour she looked?"

Miss Blake put the beautiful bouquet of hothouse flowers--which she had been guarding carefully--into a vase of water, for it was for Mr. Cattacomb they had been destined. Some light refreshment in the shape of wine and cake stood ready on the table; and Mrs. Jinks was examined as to other preparations. All was in readiness, and the ladies waited with impatience.

An impatience that at length subsided into doubt, and that into disappointment. The clock had gone ticking on; the train must have been in long ago, and it became evident Mr. Cattacomb had not come. Miss Blake walked home slightly vexed: and there she found Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian.

Things often go cross and contrary. They had not been expected until later, and Miss Blake had intended to preside--if it may be called
so--at both arrivals. As it happened, she had presided at neither. It was in crossing the lawn, that Lucy, radiant, blooming, joyous, ran out to meet her.

"Good gracious!" cried Miss Blake.

"Oh, Theresa, how beautiful and happy everything is!" cried the young wife, pushing back her bonnet to give and take the kiss of greeting. "Karl has been showing me the rooms. Hewitt said you would not be long."

"But when did you come, Lucy?"

"We came in by the four o\'clock train, and took a fly. Here\'s my husband. Karl, do you see Theresa?"

Karl was coming down the terrace steps to greet her. Miss Blake advanced coldly.

"How do you do, Sir Karl?" and the hand she put into his seemed limp and cold. He did not look blooming; but worn, ill, and depressed.

They entered the hall together, the rays from the coloured windows shining on them and on the tesselated floor, lighting all up with a cheerful brightness. The reception-rooms were on either side the hall: they were what Sir Karl had been showing to his wife. Lucy declared it was the prettiest house she was ever in.

"I like this room better than any of the grand ones," spoke Miss Blake, leading to the little north room she generally sat in, where we saw her breakfasting with Mrs. Cleeve.

"It shall be called your room then, Theresa," said Lucy. "Oh yes, it is very pretty," she continued, looking at the light paper, flecked with gold, the light furniture with its crimson satin coverings, the various tasty objects scattered about, and the glass doors, wide open to the terrace, to the sweet flowers, and to the smooth lawn beyond.

"I believe this was the late Lady Andinnian\'s favourite room," observed Karl.

"Let me see," said Lucy, stepping outside, "............