CHAPTER IV.
"Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of a fat old man,--a tun of man is thy companion." SHAKESPEARE.
The Reverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small dining-room of his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, and disposing of round after round of hot buttered toast with that suave alacrity he always displayed in the consumption of succulent eatables.

He was a largely made man, very much on the wrong side of fifty, with accumulations of unwholesome fat on every available portion of his body.

His round face was cleanly shaven and shiny, as though its flabby surface were frequently polished with some sort of luminous grease instead of the customary soap.

His mouth was absurdly small and pursy for so broad a countenance,--his nose seemed endeavoring to retreat behind his puffy cheeks as though painfully aware of its own insignificance,--and he had little, sharp, ferret-like eyes of a dull mahogany brown, which were utterly destitute of even the faintest attempt at any actual expression.

They were more like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under their scanty fringe of pale-colored lashes with a sort of shallow cunning which might mean malice or good-humor,--no one looking at them could precisely determine which.