It was two days after Graham’s talk with Madelon, that some people of whom mention has once or twice been made in this little history, were sitting chatting together as they drank their afternoon tea in Mrs. Vavasour’s drawing room at Ashurst, a low, dark-panelled, chintz-furnished room, with an ever-pervading scent of dried rose-leaves, and fresh flowers, and with long windows opening on to the little lawn, all shut in with trees and shrubberies.  Mrs. Vavasour, who sat by the fire knitting, was a calm, silent, gentle-looking woman, with smooth, fair hair under her lace cap, and those pathetic lines we sometimes see in the faces of those who through circumstances, or natural temperament, have achieved contentment through the disappointments of life, rather than through its fulfilled hopes.  She was the mother of many children, of whom the elder half was already dispersed—­one was married, one dead, one in India, and one at sea; of those still at home, the eldest, Madge, an honest, sturdy, square-faced child of eleven or twelve, was in the room now, handing about tea-cups and bread-and-butter.  Dr. Vavasour was a big, white-haired man, many years older than his wife, who had married him when she was only seventeen; he was a clever man, and a popular doctor, and having just come in from a twenty miles’ drive through March winds and rain, was standing with his back to the mantelpiece, with an air of having thoroughly earned warmth and repose.  He was discussing parish matters with Mr. Morris the curate, who was sitting at the small round table where Maria Leslie, a tall, rosy, good-humoured-looking young woman of five or six-and-twenty, was pouring out the tea.

“If the Rector is on your side, Morris,” said the Doctor, “of course I can say nothing; only I can tell you this, you will lose me.  I will have nothing to do with your new-fangled notions; I have said my prayers after the same fashion for the last sixty years, and as sure as you begin to sing-song them, instead of reading them, I give up my pew, and go off to church at C——­, with my wife and family.”

“Not with Miss Leslie, I trust, Doctor,” said the Curate; “we could not get on without Miss Leslie, to lead the singing.”

“Miss Leslie does as she likes, and if she prefers sham singing to honest reading, that’s her concern, not mine.  But I tell you plainly, sir, I am an old-fashioned man, and have no patience with all these changes.  I have a great mind to see if I can’t get made churchwarden, and try the effect of a little counter-irritation.  Madge, my child, bring me a cup of tea.”

“I hope you do not hold these opinions, Miss Leslie,” said the Curate, in an under tone to Maria Leslie; “we could not afford to lose you from amongst us; you must not desert us.”

“Oh, no, I could not give up my Ashurst Sundays,” answers Maria, fidgeting amongst her cups and saucers; “I have too many interests here, the schools, and the church—­and the preaching—­not that the Rector’s sermons are always very lively; and then I like chanting and intoning.”