and Hell in her hands. Fancy had envisaged an immense cook with a great red face, and a liver swollen to atrabiliar disproportions. She was pleased to learn that the autocrat of the Parson's kitchen was not much larger than herself and consistently amiable.

"Parson preaches against sour faces," said Alfred. "No yapping and snarling in his house. From your looks, you ain't one to come slummicking in after hours with a silly tale about being took all over queer when out walking."

"My! no," affirmed Fancy.

Alfred digested this in silence. Fancy had already told him much about her family, but she had not mentioned others. Presently, Alfred said abruptly:

"Have you got a young man in Salisbury?"

Fancy laughed for the first time, a silvery trickle of laughter.

"Why should you think I have, Mr. Yellam?"

"It seems to me likely."

"Well, I am fond of one boy. He's too sweet for anything."

"Is he?"

"Yes, I'd like you to meet him. Maybe I'll show you his photograph one fine day. It's in my trunk. He's a sailor-boy, and at sea."

"Ah. At sea, is he? My mother says that a woman is silly to marry a sailor. Why? Because, if you love him, he is always at sea, and if you hate him, he bides at home."

Fancy laughed again.

"Then my boy, after he marries, will be always at sea. How miserable for his wife!"

"It is a fair warning."

"For me, Mr. Yellam?"

"I mean, if you marry your sailor-boy."

"But I can't marry my own dear brother."

And then Alfred laughed, Homerically.

Soon afterwards, he left her and a modest box at the Vicarage. She thanked him demurely, asking how much she owed him. Alfred was tempted to demand a kiss in payment, but a glance at a virginal face restrained him. He said, "One shilling, please, miss," and she slipped the coin into his ample palm, adding: "It's a new one. That brings luck, don't it?" Alfred indulged in no speculations on this point, but when he found himself alone, he examined the loose change in his pocket, and picking out a new shilling, transferred it to another pocket, wondering furtively if he were making a fool of himself. He whistled gaily as he drove on.

Fancy was shown to a small room, which pleased her immensely, because no other maid shared it with her. From a casemented window, she could see the park of Pomfret Court, with its clumps of fine trees and its herds of dappled deer. She felt that she would be happy in such a quiet place. The room was very simply but comfortably furnished, spotlessly clean and fresh. She admired the wall-paper, white with small sprigs of pink roses on it. What a lucky girl to have such a nice room! And, approaching the Vicarage, she had fallen in love with the many-gabled house standing amongst beeches, a warm-looking house of time-mellowed brick, built substantially, happily situated below the church and just above the village. As she was unpacking, the house-maid, Molly, brought her a cup of tea. Being her first day, Fancy was not expected to wait at dinner, but Molly told her that after dinner she would be sent for, and that she might expect a five-minute chat with her master.

"Is he masterful?" she asked.

Molly nodded, adding confidentially:

"Such a pair of eyes as never was. Gimlets! It ain't no fun lying to him, and no use either. He can look bang through a pore girl, and tell her what she's had for dinner."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Fancy.

"Don't you worry! 'Tis an easy place. No SHE poking and prying about. Only we have to be good girls here, and then we're happy."

"I do hope I shall be happy," said Fancy, adding hastily, "I look such a fright when I ain't."

After dinner she was duly sent for, and found the Parson walking up and down his study. He regarded her austerely, bidding her welcome to his house. Fancy noticed at once the keenness of his glance, and the still more penetrating quality of his voice. First impressions count enormously with sensitive creatures, and young women in Fancy's station of life are not much concerned with shades and gradations. To most of them men are angels or devils, black or white. Fancy had encountered what she called "devils" in Salisbury, rough fellows with Rabelaisian jests upon their thick lips. From such she shrank instinctively. Happily for her, she had met the other sort in and out of the Cathedral Close. Instantly, she acclaimed Mr. Hamlin as angel, a rather terrible angel, such as she imagined Saint Michael to be, pitiless to the wicked, smiting them hip and thigh with a flaming sword. Her second impression, not quite so vivid, was more agreeable. The Parson's clothes were shabby, and his study, which, indeed, reflected truthfully the man's personality, presented a somewhat bleak aspect. It looked a workshop rather than a comfortable room. The cocoanut matting was worn; plain deal shelves held innumerable cheaply-bound books; pamphlets were piled upon the floor; the chairs, with one exception, were not upholstered. She blushed a little as the thought came to her that she, the new parlourmaid, not yet in working kit, was the smartest object in her master's room.

Mr. Hamlin asked her a few questions. Fancy had good references; she was a Churchwoman; she had been confirmed by Sarum himself. She belonged to the Girls' Friendly Society. Did she like her work? Yes. Mr. Hamlin smiled. For a moment Saint Michael vanished and a less terrifying personage stood in his place.

"I like my work," said the Parson incisively. "That is a vital matter. Perhaps it is the most vital matter in the world. Each of us has his or her work, and if we do it gladly it is well with us. You don't look very strong."

"I'm much stronger than I look, sir."

Her soft, deprecating voice brought another smile to the Parson's lips. He said abruptly:

"Good. Women need all their strength and reserves of strength. Your work here will not be too hard. Spare yourself whenever you reasonably can, and so you will serve me and yourself the better. Good-night."

Fancy went away, slightly awed, but feeling much more comfortable. Before going to bed, she wrote a short letter to her father, telling him that she liked her place. She added a postscript: "Mr. Yellam, the carrier, was ever so kind to me."

She slept well in a comfortable bed.

She came to Nether-Applewhite on a Thursday. On the following Sunday, as Alfred Yellam had foreseen, she was feeling homesick, because she had never failed to see her own people on that day. After luncheon, to hearten herself up, she sang hymns in the pantry.

Her face brightened, when she perceived Alfred at the door of the pantry. After asking her how she fared, and learning that the other maids were "out," he said, in business-like tones:

"Any orders for the carrier?"

Fancy smiled demurely. She was alone in the house. The Parson had a Children's Service at three. She guessed that, as a rule, carriers did not call for orders at such an hour.

"Not as I know of, Mr. Yellam. Do you generally call for orders on Sunday afternoon?"

By this time she had been informed of Alfred's perambulations with her predecessor. It might be an honoured custom in Nether-Applewhite for the carrier to walk out with the Vicarage parlourmaid. Alfred gave a guffaw.

"Well, no; I took a notion to drop in, casual-like, to pass the time of day."

"What would the Vicar say to that?"

"Parson ain't the fearsome man you take him to be. A very human gentleman, always welcome in our house. And I make bold to tell you that I'm heartily welcome in his."

"If that is so," said Fancy, politely, "won't you sit down, Mr. Yellam?"

She indicated a chair into which Alfred bumped massively, with the air of one not to be budged from an impregnable position. Fancy was getting ready some dainty tea-things.

"Expecting company, miss?"

"Yes. Mr. Lionel Pomfret and Mrs. Pomfret. A nice tea. Master's orders."

Alfred nodded. He eyed Fancy with ever-increasing approval. A black