"You never know," said Lalage.

"And if it had been that Hilda would never have done it."

"I didn't," said Hilda.

"Of course if it's nothing worse than ordinary cheek," said Lalage, "I shouldn't have minded talking to father about it in the least. But I don't see how it could be that, for we didn't cheek him. Did we, Hilda?"

"I didn't," said Hilda.

"If there'd been anything of the other sort about it--and it sounds rather like that, doesn't it?"

"Very," I said; "but you can't trust sounds."

"Anyhow, we thought it safer to come to you," said Lalage.

"That was nice of you both."

"I don't see anything nice about it one way or the other," said Lalage.

"We simply thought that if it was anything--anything not quite ladylike, you'd be sure to know all about it."

I do not know why Lalage should saddle me with a reputation of this kind. I have never done anything to deserve it. My feelings were hurt.

"As it turns out not to be improper," I said, "there's no use coming to me."

I spoke severely, in cold tones, with great stiffness of manner. Lalage was not in the least snubbed.

"Have you any book in the house that would tell you?" she asked.

"I have a dictionary."

"Stupid of me," said Lalage, "not to have thought of a dictionary, and frightfully stupid of you, Hilda. You ought to have thought of it. You were always fonder of dictionaries than I was. There are two or three of them in the rectory. We might have gone straight there and looked it out. We'll go now."

"If it's a really pressing matter," I said, "you'll save a few minutes by coming back with me. You're fully a quarter of a mile from the rectory this minute."

"Right," said Lalage. "Let down the back of the trap and hop up. We'll drive you."

I let down the seat and then hopped. I hopped quite a long way before I succeeded in getting up. For Lalage started before I was nearly ready and urged the pony to a gallop at once. When we reached the house I sent the unfortunate animal round to the stable yard, with orders that he was to be carefully rubbed down and then walked about until he was cool.

Lalage, followed by Hilda and afterward by me, went into the library.

"Now," she said, "trot out your best dictionary."

I collected five, one of them an immense work in four volumes, and laid them in a row on the table.

"Hilda," said Lalage, "look it out."

Hilda chose, the largest dictionary and after a short hesitation picked up the volume labelled "Jab to Sli." She stared at the word without speaking for some time after she found it. Lalage and I looked over her shoulder and, when we saw the definition, stared too. It was Lalage who read it out in the end:

"Simony from Simon Magus, Acts VIII. The crime of buying or selling ecclesiastical preferment or the corrupt presentation of any one to an ecclesiastical benefice for money or reward."

I own that I was puzzled. Lalage is a person of great originality and daring, but I did not see how even she could possibly have committed simony. She and Hilda looked at each other. There was an expression of genuine astonishment on their faces.

"Do you think," said Lalage at last, "that the Archdeacon could by any chance have gone suddenly dotty in the head?"

"He was quite sane the day before yesterday," I said. "I was talking to him."

"Well, then, I don't understand it. Whatever else we did we didn't do that or anything like it. Did we, Hilda?"

"I didn't," said Hilda, who seemed as unwilling as ever to answer for Lalage.

"For one thing," said Lalage, "we hadn't got any ecclesiastical preferments to sell and we hadn't any money to buy them, so we couldn't have simonied even if we'd wanted to. But he certainly said we had. Just tell exactly what he did say, Hilda. It was to you he said it."

Hilda, with a very fair imitation of the Archdeacon's manner, repeated his words:

"'Young lady, are you aware that this is the sin of simony?'"

I took the dictionary in my hand.

"There's a bit more," I said, "that you didn't read. Perhaps there is some secondary meaning in the word. I'll go on: 'By stat: 31 Elizabeth C. Vn. Severe penalties are enacted against this crime. In the church of Scotland simonaical practices----' Well, we're not in Scotland anyhow, so we needn't go into that. I wonder if stat: 31 Elizabeth C. VII runs in this country. Some don't; but it sounds to me rather as if it would.

If it does, you're in a nasty fix, Lalage; you and Hilda. Several penalties can hardly mean less than imprisonment with hard labour.

"But we didn't do it," said Lalage.

"The Archdeacon appears to think you did," I said, "both of you, especially Hilda. You must have done something. You'd better tell me exactly what occurred from the beginning of the interview until the end.

I'll try and pick out what struck the Archdeacon as simonaical. I don't want to see either of you run in for severe penalties if we can help it.

I expect the best thing will be to repent and apologize at once."

"Repent of what?" said Lalage.

"That's what I want to find out. Begin at the beginning now and give me the whole story."

"We drove over this morning," said Lalage, "to see the Archdeacon. I didn't want to go a bit, for the Archdeacon is particularly horrid when he's nice, as he is just at present. But Selby-Harrison said we ought."

"Is Selby-Harrison here?"

"No. He wrote from Dublin. He's been looking up the subject of bishops in the college library so that we'd know exactly what we ought to do."

"He should have looked up simony first thing. I can't forgive Selby-Harrison for letting you in for those severe penalties."

"There wasn't a bit of harm in what he said. It was nearly all out of the Bible and the ancient Fathers of the Church and Councils and things.

It couldn't have been simony. You have his letter, haven't you, Hilda?

Read it out."

Hilda opened the small bag she always carries and took out the letter.

It looked to me a very long one.

"I don't know," I said, "that Selby-Harrison's letter really matters unless you read it out to the Archdeacon."

"We didn't get the chance," said Lalage, "although we meant to."