“You cannot think how happy it has made me and Lucy.  We never thought Jan was, or could be, appreciated.”

“He was by me.  He is worth—­shall I tell it you, Lionel?—­more than all the rest of Deerham put together.  Yourself included.”

“I will indorse the assertion,” answered Lionel.  “I am glad you are going to have him.”

“I would have had him, had he asked me, years ago,” candidly avowed Lady Mary.

“I was inquiring of Jan, whether you would not wish him to give up his profession.  He was half offended with me for suggesting it.”

“If Jan could ever be the one to lead an idle, useless life, I think half my love for him would die out,” was her warm answer.  “It was Jan’s practical industry, his way of always doing the right in straightforward simplicity, that I believe first won me to like him.  This world was made to work in; the next for rest—­as I look upon it, Lionel.  I shall be prouder of being wife to the surgeon Jan Verner, than I should be had I married a duke’s eldest son.”

“He is to take his degree, he says.”

“I believe so:  but he will practise generally all the same—­just as he does now.  Not that I care that he should become Dr. Verner; it is papa.”

“If he—­Why, who can they be?”

Lionel Verner’s interrupted sentence and question of surprise were caused by the appearance of some singular-looking forms who were stalking into the grounds.  Poor, stooping, miserable, travel-soiled objects, looking fit for nothing but the tramp-house.  A murmer of astonishment burst from all present when they were recognised.  It was Grind’s lot.  Grind and his family, who had gone off with the Mormons, returning now in humility, like dogs with burnt tails.

“Why, Grind, can it be you?” exclaimed Lionel, gazing with pity at the man’s despairing aspect.

He, poor meek Grind, not less meek and civil than of yore, sat down upon a bench and burst into tears.  They gathered round him in crowds, while he told his tale.  How they had, after innumerable hardships on the road, too long to recite then, after losing some of their party by death, two of his children being amongst them—­how they had at length reached the Salt Lake city, so gloriously depicted by Brother Jarrum.  And what did they find?  Instead of an abode of peace and plenty, of luxury, of immunity from work, they found misery and discomfort.  Things were strange to them, and they were strange in turn.  He’d describe it all another time, he said; but it was quite enough to tell them what it was, by saying that he resolved to come away if possible, and face again the hardships of the way, though it was only to die in the old land, than he’d stop in it.  Brother Jarrum was a awful impostor, so to have led ’em away!

“Wasn’t there no saints?” breathlessly asked Susan Peckaby, who had elbowed herself to the front.

“Saints!” echoed Grind.  “Yes, they be saints!  A iniketous, bad-doing, sensitive lot.  I’d starve on a crust here, sooner nor I’d stop among ’em.  Villains!”