from this first proposition; still she gave her
tacit agreement by bowing her head.

"And, you know, our godfathers and
godmothers are expected to promise and vow
three things in our name, when we are little
babies, and can do nothing but squall for
ourselves. It is a great privilege, but don't
let us be hard upon those who have not had
the chance of godfathers and godmothers.
Some people, we know, are born with silver
spoons,—that's to say, a godfather to give
one things, and teach one one's catechism,
and see that we're confirmed into good
church-going Christians,—and others with
wooden ladles in their mouths. These
poor last folks must just be content to be
godfatherless orphans, and dissenters all their
lives; and if they are tradespeople into the
bargain, so much the worse for them; but
let us be humble Christians, my dear lady,
and not hold our heads too high because we
were born orthodox quality."

"You go on too fast, Miss Galindo! I
can't follow you, Besides, I do believe dissent
to be an invention of the Devil's. Why can't
they believe as we do? It's very wrong.
Besides, it's schism and heresy, and, you
know, the Bible says that's as bad as witchcraft."

My lady was not convinced, as I could see.
After Miss Galindo had gone, she sent Mrs.
Medlicott for certain books out of the great
old library upstairs, and had them made up
into a parcel under her own eye.

"If Captain James comes to-morrow, I
will speak to him about these Brookes. I
have not hitherto liked to speak to him,
because I did not wish to hurt him, by
supposing there could be any truth in the reports
about his intimacy with them. But now I
will try and do my duty by him and them.
Surely this great body of divinity will bring
them back to the true church."

I could not tell, for though my lady read
me over the titles, I was not any the wiser as
to their contents. Besides, I was much more
anxious to consult my lady as to my own
change of place. I showed her the letter I
had that day received from Harry; and we
once more talked over the expediency of my
going to live with him, and trying what entire
change of air would do to re-establish my
failing health. I could say anything to my
lady, she was so sure to understand me
rightly. For one thing, she never thought of
herself, so I had no fear of hurting her by
stating the truth. I told her how happy my
years had been while passed under her roof;
but that now I had begun to wonder whether
I had not duties elsewhere, in making a home
for Harry, and whether the fulfilment of
these duties, quiet ones they must needs
be in the case of such a cripple as myself,
would not prevent my sinking into the
querulous habit of thinking and talking into
which I found myself occasionally falling.
Add to which, there was the prospect of
benefit from the more bracing air of the
north.

It was then settled that my departure
from Hanbury, my happy home for so long,
was to take place before many weeks had
passed. And as, when one period of life is
about to be shut up for ever, we are sure to
look back upon it with fond regret, so I,
happy enough in my future prospects, could
not avoid recurring to all the days of my life
in the Hall, from the time when I came to
it, a shy, awkward girl, scarcely past childhood,
to now, when a grown woman,—past
childhood—almost, from the very character
of my illness, past youth,—I was looking
forward to leaving my lady's house (as a residence)
for ever. As it has turned out, I
never saw either her or it again. Like a
piece of sea-wrack, I have drifted away from
those days: quiet, happy, eventless days, very
happy to remember!

I thought of good, jovial Mr. Mountford,—
and his regrets that he might not keep a
pack, "a very small pack," of harriers, and
his merry ways, and his love of good eating;
of the first coming of Mr. Gray, and my
lady's attempt to quench his sermons, when
they tended to enforce any duty connected
with education. And now we had an absolute
school-house in the village; and since
Miss Bessy's drinking tea at the Hall, my
lady had been twice inside it, to give directions
about some fine yarn she was having
spun for table-napery. And her ladyship
had so outgrown her old custom of dispensing
with sermon or discourse, that even during
the temporary preaching of Mr. Crosse, she
had never had recourse to it, though I believe
she would have had all the congregation
on her side if she had.

And Mr. Horner was dead, and Captain
James reigned in his stead. Good, steady,
severe, silent Mr. Horner! with his clock-like
regularity, and his snuff-coloured clothes, and
silver buckles! I have often wondered which
one misses most when they are dead and
gone,—the bright creatures full of life, who
are hither and thither and everywhere, so
that no one can reckon upon their coming
and going, with whom stillness and the long
quiet of the grave seems utterly irreconcileable,
so full are they of vivid motion
and passion,—or the slow, serious people,
whose movements—nay, whose very words,
seem to go by clock-work; who never
appear much to affect the course of our life
while they are with us, but whose methodical
ways show themselves when they are gone,
to have been intertwined with our very
roots of daily existence. I think I miss these
last the most, although I may have loved the
former best. Captain James never was to
me what Mr. Horner was, though the latter
had hardly changed a dozen words with me
at the day of his death. Then Miss Galindo!
I remembered the time as if it had been but
yesterday when she was but a name—and a