wait for the storm to be over, and the cheerful voice that replied to
her. He did not scold Ellen for, as usual, making things neat; and
whereas, five minutes sooner, he would have hated the notion of any
one coming near him, he now only hoped that his mother would bring
Mr. Cope up; and presently he heard the well-known creak of the
stairs under a manly foot, and his mother's voice saying something
about 'a great sufferer, Sir.'

Then came in sight his mother's white cap, and behind her one of the
most cheerful lively faces that Alfred had ever beheld. The new
Curate looked very little more than a boy, with a nice round fresh
rosy face, and curly brown hair, and a quick joyous eye, and regular
white teeth when he smiled that merry good-humoured smile. Indeed,
he was as young as a deacon could be, and he looked younger. He
knocked his tall head against the top of the low doorway as he came
into the room, and answered Mrs. King's apologies with a pleasant
laugh. Ellen knew her mother would like him the better for his
height, for no one since the handsome coachman himself had had to
bend his head to get into the room. Alfred liked the looks of him
the first moment, and by way of salutation put up one of his weary,
white, blue-veined hands to pull his damp forelock; but Mr. Cope,
nodding in answer to Ellen's curtsey, took hold of his hand at once,
and softening the cheery voice that was so pleasant to hear, said,
'Well, my boy, I hope we shall be good friends. And what's your
name?'

'Alfred King, Sir,' was the answer. It really was quite a pleasure
not to begin with the old weary subject of being pitied for his
illness.