Scarcely had Rosamond shaken hands with him, standing where her
drawing-room rug was to be in future days, when a merry whistle came
near, and over the wall from the churchyard leapt first a black
retriever, secondly a Skye terrier, thirdly a bull ditto, fourthly a
young man, or rather an enormous boy, who for a moment stood amazed
and disconcerted at the unexpectedly worshipful society into which
he had jumped!
"Ha! Herbert! is that you?" laughed Julius.
"I beg your pardon!" he breathlessly exclaimed. "I was just taking
the short cut! I had no idea--Here, Mungo, you ruffian!" as the
Skye was investigating Lady Rosamond's boot.
"Oh, I like him of all things! I am glad to welcome you to our
future house!" as she held out her hand to the Reverend Herbert
Bowater, the junior curate, a deacon of a fortnight's standing,
whose round open happy blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, merry lips, and
curly light hair, did not seem in keeping with the rigidly straight
collar and waistcoat, and the long black coat, at present
plentifully streaked with green tree-moss, while his boots and
trousers looked as if they had partaken of the mud-bath which his
dogs had evidently been wallowing in.
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