The minister's quaint, pretty house suited him perfectly; the minister's servants were most punctual in their services: the minister's phaeton conveniently held his cumbrous person, and the minister's pony was a quiet beast, that trotted good-temperedly wherever it was guided, and shied at nothing.

Yes, he was thoroughly comfortable,--as comfortable as a truly pious fat man deserves to be, and all the work he had to do was to preach twice on Sundays, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered congregation, who listened to his words respectfully though without displaying any emotional rapture.

Their stolidity, however, did not affect him,--he preached to please himself,--loving above all things to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as when thundering fierce denunciations against the Church of Rome.

His thoughts seemed tending in that direction now, as he poured himself out his third cup of tea and smilingly shook his head over it, while he stirred the cream and sugar in,--for he took from his waistcoat pocket a small glittering object and laid it before him on the table, still shaking his head and smiling with a patient, yet reproachful air of superior wisdom.

It was a crucifix of mother-o'-pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian faith.