Frank Headley the curate, therefore, had touched altogether the
wrong chord when he spoke of displacing Grace. And when, that same
afternoon, he sauntered down to the pier-head, wearied with his
parish work, not only did Tardrew stump away in silence as soon as he
appeared, but Captain Willis's face assumed a grave and severe look,
which was not often to be seen on it.

"Well, Captain Willis?" said Frank, solitary and sad; longing for a
talk with, some one, and not quite sure whether he was welcome.

"Well, sir?" and the old man lifted his hat, and made one of his
princely bows. "You look tired, sir; I am afraid you're doing too
much."

"I shall have more to do, soon," said the curate, his eye glancing
towards the schoolmistress, who, disturbed by the noise above, was
walking slowly up the beach, with a child holding to every finger, and
every fold of her dress.

Willis saw the direction of his eye, and came at once to the point, in
his gentle, straightforward fashion.

"I hear you have thoughts of taking the school from her, sir?"

"Why--indeed--I shall be very sorry; but if she will persist in going
to the chapel, I cannot overlook the sin of schism."

"She takes the children to church twice a Sunday, don't she? And
teaches them all that you tell her--"