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 in a change of scene and neighbours. On reflection it occurred to him that Wolfville must be only a sort of glorified Hale's Turning, that the very safety and regularity implied in Dr. Wilcove's partisan approval of the school in question augured ill for one's chances of finding therein companions akin to the stimulating people in books. Dr. Wilcove was kind but Dr. Wilcove was an usher and dearly loved that moment when it was time to get up and pass the plate—a moment which Paul had grown to despise. He had learned, aided, as always, by hints from Aunt Verona, that mere showing-off can become mortally dull and barren. He was suffering from the reaction of a long exhibition of virtuosity. Doxologies and postludes had grown sour, like milk, from standing still; his responses in Sunday-school had become parrot-like; his intimate relationship with the Holy Ghost was extinct. He could therefore muster little enthusiasm for the proposed school on the ground of its being a continuance of the traditions of the family set. Rather than sink into that bog he would shock the village by subscribing to Mark Laval's arguments in favour of the college of St. Francis Xavier. After all, what he objected to in Dr. Wilcove's proposal was precisely what Mark had objected to in his former cocksure assertions: namely, complacency and a casual assumption of infallibility. "Anything for a change," was his motto for the time being, but the change must be real and not merely apparent.

Becky States, the black washerwoman, had come to live in the house as general servant. Dr. Wilcove had insisted on the arrangement and the decision was arrived at one cold day in January when Paul had come in for his skates to find Aunt Verona flushed and strangely tense, in conference with the doctor. The latter was pre-