One lock of Miss Simpson's tightly braided hair betrayed a rebellious tendency to escape the hairpins and stray pleasingly over her brow.

This could not be permitted. The aid of additional pins was requisitioned, and the unruly lock was brought into subjection, and tucked out of sight beneath the unrelenting brim of the eminently decorous hat.

Woman's hair never seems to achieve a definite recognition in the scheme of its wearer. Some women regard their hair as an adornment, which it is, and take trouble that other people shall recognise its claim as an asset in feminine decorativeness; with other women it would seem that the human head suffers this objectionable growth only because nature insists upon it as an essential part of her design. They brush it back from the face in strained disapproval, and further abuse it by screwing it into as tight a ball as circumstances permit. No frivolous abandon is allowed; pins, and even pomade, are resorted to, until what is undoubtedly beautiful in itself is rendered sufficiently unbecoming to soothe the most fastidiously decorous mind.

Miss Simpson belonged to this latter category. By instinct Miss Simpson was modest to the verge of prudery. But as, in the inconsistency of human nature, a good person is often streaked with evil, and an evil person possesses a strain of goodness, so Miss Simpson, despite her prudery, had a touch of the softer sentiments which no woman should be without. This weakness led to the cherishing of a romantic passion for Mr Musgrave, which so far overcame her natural decorum as to drive her to open pursuit of the object of her middle-aged affections. From anyone else a written proposal to a man would have appealed to her in the light of an offence against every womanly tradition; but in her own case circumstances allowed for the forsaking of her principles, even demanded this sacrifice of her. Plainly John Musgrave would have liked to propose; but he was a shy man. His gentlemanly refusal of her offer was, she recognised, prompted by this same shyness, and not at all from disinclination towards a life-partnership with herself. Eventually she trusted this not unmanly shyness would be conquered so far as to give him the courage to open the courtship which she felt he was always on the verge of beginning.

Proof that he enjoyed her companionship was forthcoming in the fact that he adhered to the practice of seeking it publicly. If he did not enjoy her companionship he would assuredly retire from the committee of school management, and other local matters in which they were jointly interested. Every one knows that interests in common form a substantial basis for mutual regard; and John Musgrave and Miss Simpson had a common bond in their insatiable love for busying themselves in parish affairs.

They considered themselves--it is not an uncommon conceit--indispensable to the efficient working of the social machinery of Moresby. If the vicar held opposite views he was too wise a man to air them; and being good-natured, and tactful beyond the ordinary run of persons in authority, he allowed them their amiable conceit, and was grateful that they in return allowed him to occupy his own pulpit and generally conduct the services. Interference in his particular department was the one thing he would have resented. On this amicable footing was the parish of Moresby run.

But with the advent of Mrs Chadwick the vicar, at least, foresaw complications, and awaited their development with curiosity. Miss Simpson alone harboured no thought of change in the conduct of Moresby affairs. That the coming of a stranger should foreshadow interference in parish matters would never have occurred to her. The coming of the vicar's wife had not effected that.

But this afternoon, setting forth to call on Mrs Sommers, with a pleasurable thrill of anticipation which the prospective society of the ladies would scarcely seem to justify, it entered her mind for the first time that Mrs Chadwick's residence at the Hall must work some sort of change in the pleasant routine of their daily lives.

She was not sure that she approved of Mrs Chadwick. She was very sure, when she arrived and was shown into Mr Musgrave's drawing-room, that she, disapproved of her. Mrs Chadwick was seated at the open window, although the day was cold, and she was smoking a cigarette. She threw the cigarette away on the visitor's entrance, and smilingly apologised.

"I hope you don't object to smoke," she said. "It is an incurable bad habit with me."

Miss Simpson did not object to smoke from the proper quarter--the proper quarter being as it issued from between the lips of the sterner sex, who were privileged in the matter of bad habits, which is a feminine fallacy that is slipping out of date; she very strongly objected to smoking when her own sex indulged in it--indeed, save for Mrs Chadwick, she had never seen a woman smoke. It was, she considered, a disgusting and unfeminine practice.

She murmured "Really!" And shaking hands somewhat frigidly, addressed herself pointedly to Mrs Sommers for the first few minutes after sitting down.

Mrs Chadwick caressed the pekinese, and watched the visitor with curious interest the while. It was not, however, in Mrs Chadwick's nature to remain outside any conversation for long; and she gracefully insinuated herself into the talk, to Miss Simpson's further surprise.

She expected, when she took the trouble to show her displeasure, to see the object thereof properly quelled. That, too, is a characteristic of parish omnipotence. And, amazingly, Mrs Chadwick was already betraying a desire to interfere in Moresby arrangements.

"I visited the schools this morning," she observed, breaking in on Miss Simpson's gossip about the new schoolmaster, who, seemingly, gave every satisfaction, being a great improvement on his predecessor, who was, as Miss Simpson expressed it, a horrid Radical. "It was all very amusing.

They are such quaint, blunt little people. I liked them. But the schools want pulling down and rebuilding. Everything is obsolete. The ceilings are too low and the ventilation inadequate. I am all for fresh air."

She laughed at sight of Miss Simpson's wooden expression, and at the shiver which ran through her narrow frame as she glanced meaningly at the wide-open window.

"Do you feel this too much?" she asked pleasantly, and obligingly drew the window partially down. "Mrs Sommers and I are seasoned; but we blow Mr Musgrave away at times."

That, of course, accounted for the absence of the master of the house which Miss Simpson had regretfully noticed. The draughts and the smoke would naturally drive Mr Musgrave away; no self-respecting man would stand it.

"I like air," Miss Simpson answered coldly, "in moderation."

Then she returned to the subject of the schools. This outspoken person must be given to understand from the commencement that, though she might pose as _grande dame_ in Moresby by reason of her residence at the Hall, the older residents would not brook interference with existing institutions. Moresby was conservative in principle, and resented innovations.

"The present schools are a feature of the place," she said. "No one would care to have them done away with. They are picturesque."

"Yes; they are," Mrs Chadwick admitted readily. "That is what distresses me in old places--their beauty. One hates to demolish the beautiful. But healthy children are more beautiful than old buildings; and the modern buildings, with up-to-date construction, are healthier for small people."

"I think our village children are remarkably healthy," Miss Simpson protested.

"Do you? Half the school, I observed, had colds. Healthy children should not be susceptible to chills. If they worked in properly ventilated rooms they would not be. The lungs of the young have immense powers of resistance, but we weaken these powers with our foolish indifference to overheating and overcrowding. It is little short of criminal to study the picturesque in preference to the well-being of the rising generation."

"I think we should study both," Mrs Sommers intervened, with a view to soothing the ruffled feelings of her visitor, who was chafing visibly under this downright attack. "The schools are certainly charming. I should hate to see them pulled down myself. We will have to effect some compromise."

Compromise, in Mrs Chadwick's opinion, was as ineffectual as patching a worn-out garment; the worn-out garment could but fulfil its destiny, and become rags. But she let the subject drop. It could be revived at some future date. The schools were being slowly drawn into the network of her revolutionary schemes for the modernising of Moresby.

Miss Simpson, less diplomatic, and more assertive than Mrs Sommers, showed her disapproval by abruptly changing the subject, and introducing an entirely new, and, in Mrs Chadwick's opinion, distinctly quaint topic of conversation. She referred with considerable vim to certain matters of local importance which had been given prominence in the pages of the current number of the _Parish Magazine_. Mrs Chadwick betrayed such absorbed interest in these matters that Miss Simpson was beguiled into inquiring whether she had seen the current number of the _Parish Magazine_. She spoke of the magazine as a lover of the poets might speak of the works of Shakespeare, with a certain reverential awe for the importance of proved literary merit. Mrs Chadwick wore the vaguely distressed look that a well-read woman wears on discovering an unsuspected limitation in her literary attainments. She had not even heard before of the _Parish Magazine_.

"I am afraid I don't know it," she answered. "There are such a number of magazines, aren't there? And so many new ones always coming out.

One can't keep pace with these things. I stick to the old magazines, like the _Century_, and the _Strand_, and the _Contemporary Review_. If one ought to read the _Parish Magazine_, of course I should wish to."

Miss Simpson stared, and Mrs Sommers laughed softly, albeit she did not consider this quizzing altogether fair.

"The publications you refer to are not of the same nature as the _Parish Magazine_," the visitor observed crushingly. "Our magazine is a purely local pamphlet for local circulation. It deals solely with parish matters."

Mrs Chadwick considered this dull, but she did not say so. She appeared politely impressed.

"That must be very interesting to--to Moresby inhabitants," she said gravely.

"That is its object," Miss Simpson returned. "Most parishes have their magazines. The people like to know what takes place locally; and they find it all noted down."

She spoke with the laboured forbearance of one who seeks to instruct a very ignorant person on a subject which should not have required explanation.

"Our magazine is a new venture," she added, with the conscious pride of the literary aspirant. "I started it last year. I edit it."

"Indeed!" Mrs Chadwick's tone expressed admiration. "Please put me down as an annual subscriber."

Miss Simpson unbent.

"I shall be delighted. It is a monthly pamphlet, issued at one penny."

"That is not ruinous," murmured the prospective subscriber.

"The village people could not afford more," Miss Simpson explained patiently. "They all like to read it. Occasionally some of their names are mentioned. They expect that."

"I should be afraid," Mrs Chadwick remarked, surveying the editress seriously, "of letting myself in for a libel action in your place. It is so difficult to be personal without the sacrifice of truth, and refrain from giving offence. I am inclined to think a parish magazine must be a dangerous publication."

"You haven't got the idea at all," Miss Simpson said acidly. "We only mention the things which reflect to the credit of the persons concerned, such as any little gift to the parish, or the participation in local entertainments, and such matters; and, of course, work done on committees. Mr Musgrave's name appears in its columns frequently."

"Belle," said Mrs Chadwick, with one of her radiant smiles, "I insist upon seeing the _Parish Magazine_. How is it you have kept these things from me? It would amuse me immensely to read of Mr Musgrave's doings.

He is so reticent about such things himself."

The entrance of Mr Musgrave created a diversion. He came in in advance of Eliza with the tea; and Mrs Chadwick, watching with mercilessly observant glance, noted the fluttering agitation of the visitor, whose austere manner changed as surprisingly as the colour of the chameleon, and became immediately gracious, and demurely coy. Mr Musgrave's manner was not responsive. It suggested to Mrs Chadwick his attitude towards herself.

"I have just been hearing terrible tales of the things you do, which gain you notoriety in the columns of the _Parish Magazine_," she said wickedly. "I am going to read up all the back numbers."

John Musgrave did not smile. He crossed the room deliberately, and closed the window and fastened it--an act Miss Simpson witnessed with satisfaction.

"So thoughtless of me," said Mrs Chadwick apologetically. "I always forget your dislike for fresh air."

"I do not dislike fresh air," he returned gravely, "in its proper place."

"What would you describe as its proper place?" she asked.

"Out of doors," he answered, surprised that a clever woman should ask so obvious a question.