early, and had been very prosperous.  But he was not a happy man.  He knew that he had put off the day of action till the power of action had passed away from him.  His library was well furnished, but he rarely read much else than novels and poetry; and of late years the reading even of poetry had given way to the reading of novels.  Till within ten years of the hour of which I speak, he had been a hunting parson—­not hunting loudly, but following his sport as it is followed by moderate sportsmen.  Then there had come a new bishop, and the new bishop had sent for him—­nay, finally had come to him, and had lectured him with blatant authority.  “My lord,” said the parson of Clavering, plucking up something of his past energy, as the color rose to his face, “I think you are wrong in this.  I think you are especially wrong to interfere with me in this way on your first coming among us.  You feel it to be your duty no doubt; but to me it seems that you mistake your duty.  But as the matter is simply one of my own pleasure, I shall give it up.”  After that Mr. Clavering hunted no more, and never spoke a good word to any one of the bishop of his diocese.  For myself, I think it as well that clergymen should not hunt; but had I been the parson of Clavering, I should, under those circumstances, have hunted double.

Mr. Clavering hunted no more, and probably smoked a greater number of cigars in consequence.  He had an increased amount of time at his disposal, but did not, therefore, give more time to his duties.  Alas!  What time did he give to his duties?  He kept a most energetic curate, whom he allowed to do almost what he would with the parish.  Every-day services he did prohibit, declaring that he would not have the parish church made ridiculous; but in other respects his curate was the pastor.  Once every Sunday he read the service, and once every Sunday he preached, and he resided in his parsonage ten months every year.  His wife and daughters went among the poor—­and he smoked cigars in his library.  Though not yet fifty, he was becoming fat and idle—­unwilling to walk, and not caring much even for such riding as the bishop had left to him.  And to make matters worse—­far worse, he knew all this of himself, and understood it thoroughly.  “I see a better path, and know how good it is, but I follow ever the worse.”  He was saying that to himself daily, and was saying it always without hope.

And his wife had given him up.  She had given him up, not with disdainful rejection, nor with contempt in her eye, or censure in her voice, not with diminution of love or of outward respect.  She had given him up as a man abandons his attempts to make his favorite dog take the water.  He would fain that the dog he loves should dash into the stream as other dogs will do.  It is, to his thinking, a noble instinct in a dog.  But his dog dreads the water.  As, however, he has learned to love the beast, he puts up with this mischance, and never dreams of banishing poor Ponto from his hearth because of this failure.  And so it was with Mrs. Clavering and her husband at the rectory.  He understood it all.  He knew that he was so far rejected; and he acknowledged to himself the necessity for such rejection.