The Woman in the Bazaar

								

Coventry strove to recollect if he had ever conversed with a missionary
in India. "I believe," he uttered profoundly, "that it is a very
intricate question."
"Quite so; and at such a distance it is difficult for stay-at-homes to
understand the obstacles that our brave workers have to encounter and
overcome. Idolatry, from all accounts, is a very formidable foe. My
daughter is just now organising a little sale of work, to be held here
next week, in aid of foreign missions; we like to feel that, humble
parish as we are, we do our small share to help. But I must not keep you
standing in the sun. Will you not take your horse round to the stables
and let us offer you a rest and some refreshment before you go on your
way?"
Coventry displayed becoming hesitation. He could not think of giving so
much trouble, of taking up the vicar's valuable time, though he admitted
that a short halt would not be altogether unwelcome in view of the
distance he had come and the distance he had still to go. He permitted
himself to be persuaded, and his host conducted him to the back of the
house, to where a couple of empty stalls and a coach-house almost in
ruins faced a weed-choked yard appropriated now by poultry and some
pigs.
They re-entered the house by the kitchen, that had a red-brick floor, an
open range, and black beams across the low ceiling; they traversed a
long flagged passage, passed through a swing-door that must once have
been covered with green baize, and thence across the hall to the vicar's
study. It was a cool and restful room despite its shabby furniture and
musty odour.
"I always half expect to see my predecessor sitting in my chair," the
vicar told him whimsically. "He was here for nearly half a century.
These old vicarages are steeped in memories. I have been here myself for
over twenty years, and I still feel as if I was a kind of interloper!
Everything is practically just the same as when I took the living over.
We move very slowly in these benighted mountain villages."
Someone passed the open window.
"Rafella!" called the vicar.
Coventry held his breath. What a charming name! Next moment he was
gazing at a girl's face framed in passion-flower and roses; and the face
was even fairer and more angelic than he had imagined. Delicate,
clear-cut features, eyes of heavenly blue, a skin so pink and white that
it might almost have been painted, and the hair--the glorious golden
hair!
Afterwards he could never very clearly recall what followed. He knew he
was introduced to "Rafella" as she stood at the window, that she came in
and apologised prettily for the mould that stained her little hands--she
said with engaging simplicity that she had been digging potatoes. He
knew he was regaled with lemonade and water biscuits, and that she sat
and smiled, and looked like a Madonna, while her father talked of
missions and asked innumerable questions concerning India. Was the heat
out there actually so severe? Was there constant danger from snakes and