The card was written, not engraved, the name “Rd.  R. H. C. L. Mauleverer;” and a discussion ensued whether the first letters stood for Richard or for Reverend, and if he could be unconscionable enough to have five initials.  The sisters had some business to transact at Villars’s, the Avonmouth deposit of literature and stationery, which was in the hands of a somewhat aspiring genius, who edited the weekly paper, and respected Miss Rachel Curtis in proportion to the number of periodicals she took in, and the abstruseness of the publications she inquired after.  The paper in its Saturday’s dampness lay fresh on the counter, and glancing at the new arrivals, Grace had the desired opportunity of pointing to Mr. Mauleverer’s name, and asking when he had come.  About a week since, said the obliging Mr. Villars, he appeared to be a gentleman of highly literary and artistic tastes, a philanthropist; indeed, Mr. Villars understood him to be a clerical gentlemen who had opinions—­

“Oh, Rachel, I am very sorry,” said Grace.

“Sorry, what for?”

“Why, you and mamma seemed quite inclined to like him.”

“Well, and what have we heard?”

“Not much that is rational, certainly,” said Grace, smiling; “but we know what was meant.”

“Granting that we do, what is proved against him?  No, I will not say proved, but alleged.  He is one of the many who have thought for themselves upon the perplexing problems of faith and practice, and has been sincere, uncompromising, self-sacrificing, in avowing that his mind is still in that state of solution in which all earnest and original minds must be ere the crystallizing process sets in.  Observe, Grace, I am not saying for an instant that he is in the right.  All I do say is, that when depth of thought and candour have brought misfortune upon a man, it is ungenerous, therefore, to treat him as if he had the leprosy.”

“Indeed, Rachel, I think you have made more out of his opinions than I did.”

“I was only arguing on your construction of his opinions.”

“Take care—!” For they were at this moment reaching a gate of Myrtlewood, and the sound of hoofs came close behind them.  They were those of the very handsome chestnut, ridden by Alexander Keith, who jumped off his horse with more alacrity than usual as they were opening the gate for him, and holding out his hand, eagerly said—­

“Then I conclude there is nothing the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” said Grace.  “What did you hear?”

“Only a little drowning, and a compound fracture or two,” said he, relapsing into his languid ease as he gave his bridle to a groom, and walked with them towards the house.

“There, how very annoying!” exclaimed Rachel, “though, of course, the smallest adventure does travel.”

“I may venture to hope that neither are you drowned, nor my sister’s leg broken, nor a celebrated professor and essayist ’in a high fever wi’ pulling any of you out of the sea.’”