are not at all unusual, yet are generally accounted so; one of their chief qualities, according to their friends, being that they are so unlike everybody else.  But Phebe certainly had never met any one at all like Mr. Halloway, and she was soon of the settled conviction that she should never meet any one quite like him again.  He was true to his promise to help her; (he never made a promise that he did not honestly try to keep;) and he applied himself to the by no means thankless task with the good-humored directness and energy that characterized all his actions.  There was quite a number of young girls in his parish, more proportionately than in the others.  Bell Masters and Amy Duckworth had long been hovering on its borders, and the advent of so young and prepossessing a rector had instantly removed their last scruples as to infant baptism, and settled forever their doubts as to the apostolic succession.  They had come in at once.  It was even whispered that Maria Upjohn had in an incautious moment confessed that she preferred the litany to Mr. Webb’s spontaneous effusions, and had been summarily sat upon by her mother, whose Bible contained an eleventh commandment curiously omitted from the twentieth chapter of Exodus in other versions, and reading:  “Thou shalt not become an Episcopalian, and if possible, thou shalt not be born one.”  Then there were Nellie Atterbury, and Janet Mudge, and Polly and Mattie Dexter; there certainly was no lack of active young teachers for the Sunday-school, and Phebe was well content to remain passively aside, as of old.  But, as Mrs. Lane remarked, there were no drones allowed in Mr. Halloway’s hive, and before long Phebe found herself insensibly drawn in to be one of the workers too, with any amount of business growing upon her hands, and herself, under this new and wise guidance, becoming more and more capable for it every day.

“A new broom sweeps clean,” remarked Mrs. Upjohn, contemptuously, as she heard of the stir and life in St. Joseph’s heretofore-dull little parish.  “For my part, I would rather have Mr. White back—­if he weren’t dead.  He was a good, sensible old man, who knew his place, and was contented to let his Church simmer in the background, where it belongs. He didn’t go flaunting his white gown in people’s faces every Saint’s day he could trump up, let alone the Wednesday and Friday services.  Who’s Mr. Halloway?  What does anybody know about him beyond that the Bishop recommended him, as if a Bishop must know what’s what better than other people, forsooth!  Don’t tell me!” said Mrs. Upjohn, in unutterable scorn.  “He’s a new broom, and he’s raising a big dust, and I would liefer have Mr. White back and let the dust lie,—­that’s all!”

But the Joppites were far from sharing Mrs. Upjohn’s sentiments.  Mr. Halloway did, it is true, belong to the wrong Church, but there was a strong suspicion among them that neither had this man sinned, nor his parents, that he was born to so grievous a fate.  It was rather his misfortune.  And as for the rest, he was thoroughly a gentleman; was excellently well educated; and was, moreover, comely to look upon, and eminently agreeable in his bearing.  No; Joppa was far from begrudging Mr. White his departure to the land of the blessed.  It was time the good old man went to his reward, they said.