the mornings, talking to Sally about the state
of her soul and that sort of thing. But when
I found the meat all roasted to a cinder, I
said, 'Come, Sally, let's have no more praying
when beef is down at the fire. Pray at six
o'clock in the morning and nine at night, and
I won't hinder you.' So she sauced me, and
said something about Martha and Mary,
implying that, because she had let the beef
get so overdone that I declare I could hardly
find a bit fit for Nancy Pole's sick grandchild,
she had chosen the better part. I was very
much put about, I own, and perhaps you'll
be shocked at what I said—indeed, I don't
know if it was right myself—but I told her
I had a soul as well as she, and if it was to
be saved by my sitting still and thinking
about salvation and never doing my duty, I
thought I had as good a right as she had to
be Mary, and save my soul. So that afternoon
I sate quite still, and it was really a
comfort, for I am often too busy, I know, to
pray as I ought. There is first one person
wanting me, and then another, and the house
and the food and the neighbours to see after.
So, when tea-time comes, there enters my
maid with her hump on her back, and her
soul to be saved. 'Please, ma'am, did you
order the pound of butter!'—'No, Sally,'
I said, shaking my head, 'this morning I did
not go round by Hale's farm, and this afternoon
I have been employed in spiritual
things.'

"Now our Sally likes tea and bread and
butter above everything, and dry bread was
not to her taste.

"'I'm thankful,' said the impudent hussy,
'that you have taken a turn towards godliness.
It will be my prayers, I trust, that's
given it you.'

"I was determined not to give her an opening
towards the carnal subject of butter, so
she lingered still, longing to ask leave to run
for it. But I gave her none, and munched
my dry bread myself, thinking what a famous
cake I could make for little Ben Pole with
the bit of butter we were saving; and when
Sally had had her butterless tea, and was in
none of the best of tempers because Martha
had not bethought herself of the butter, I
just quietly said:

"'Now, Sally, to-morrow we'll try to hash
that beef well, and to remember the butter,
and to work out our salvation all at the same
time, for I don't see why it can't all be done,
as God has set us to do it all.' But I heard
her at it again about Mary and Martha, and
I have no doubt that Mr. Gray will teach
her to consider me a lost sheep."

I had heard so many little speeches about
Mr. Gray from one person or another, all
speaking against him, as a mischief-maker, a
setter-up of new doctrines, and of a fanciful
standard of life (and you may be sure that,
where Lady Ludlow led, Mrs. Medlicott and
Adams were certain to follow, each in their
different ways showing the influence my lady
had over them), that I believe I had grown
to consider him as a very instrument of evil,
and to expect to perceive in his face marks
of his presumption, and arrogance, and
impertinent interference. It was now many
weeks since I had seen him, and when he
was one morning shown into the blue drawing
room (into which I had been removed for
a change), I was quite surprised to see how
innocent and awkward a young man he
appeared, confused even more than I was at
our unexpected tête-à-tête. He looked
thinner, his eyes more eager, his expression
more anxious, and his colour came and went
more than it had done when I had seen him
last. I tried to make a little conversation,
as I was, to my own surprise, more at my
ease than he was; but his thoughts were
evidently too much pre-occupied for him
to do more than answer me with
monosyllables.

Presently my lady came in. Mr. Gray
twitched and coloured more than ever; but
plunged into the middle of his subject at
once.

"My lady, I cannot answer it to my
conscience if I allow the children of this village
to go on any longer the little heathens that
they are. I must do something to alter their
condition. I am quite aware that your ladyship
disapproves of many of the plans which
have suggested themselves to me; but
nevertheless I must do something, and I am come
now to your ladyship to ask respectfully,
but firmly, what you would advise me to
do."

His eyes were dilated, and I could almost
have said they were full of tears with his
eagerness. But I am sure it is a bad plan
to remind people of decided opinions which
they have once expressed, if you wish them
to modify those opinions. Now Mr. Gray
had done this with my lady; and though I
do not mean to say she was obstinate, yet
she was not one to retract.

She was silent for a moment or two before
she replied.

"You ask me to suggest a remedy for an
evil of the existence of which I am not
conscious," was her answer—very coldly,
very gently given. "In Mr. Mountford's
time I heard no such complaints; whenever
I see the village children (and they are not
unfrequent visitors at this house, on one
pretext or another), they are well and
decently behaved."

"O, madam, you cannot judge," he broke
in. "They are trained to respect you in
word and deed; you are the highest they
ever look up to; they have no notion of a
higher."

"Nay, Mr. Gray," said my lady, smiling,
"they are as loyally disposed as any children
can be. They come up here every fourth of
June, and drink his Majesty's health, and
have buns, and (as Margaret Dawson can
testify) they take a great and respectful