CHAPTER X.

MRS. DEBORAH.

THE next morning, I waked feeling weary and weak enough. Amabel was already up, and I saw her seated near the window with her work. I lay a little while thinking over what had happened, feeling both ashamed of myself, and vexed at Mrs. Thorpe. What right had she, a tradeswoman, to set up to dictate to, and order a gentleman's daughter? And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I felt that she was right, and I was wrong.

I made a move presently, and Amabel came to me.

"Is it very late?" I asked. "Have you been up long?"

"It is not late, but I have been up more than an hour!" answered Amabel. "I have been thinking about a great many things, Lucy. When you are dressed, I will tell you what they are."

"Well! Now tell me your thoughts!" said I, as I finished my rosary, (which I still said every morning), and sat down on the other side of the window. "I hope they are not very deep, or I shall not understand them, for I feel dreadfully stupid and heavy. What would Mother Prudentia say to our being out till eleven o'clock, and that at a play?"

"She would say we were very wrong, and so we were," answered Amabel with decision. "Lucy, we must never do such a thing again."

"I don't think it was anything to make such an ado about!" I answered. "We could not help going with my lady at last."

"But we could have helped it at first!" returned Amabel. "We might have listened to Mrs. Crump, when she told us what was right."

"Mrs. Thorpe has no right to order us so!" I said, speaking out what I had been thinking.

"She has a perfect right, seeing that my aunt has placed us under her care!" said Amabel, "Think too, how kind she has been to us. How good she was last night; she did not wish to turn you out of her house, because you had a headache, like that other woman."

I remembered this, and began to feel ashamed of myself, for thinking of our kind hostess as I had done, and at last I agreed with Amabel that we had done wrong, and must ask pardon, as much as if it had been Mother Superior that we had offended.

My heart began to feel a little lightened, when arrived at this point, for the time when conscience stings us worst, is while we are refusing to allow that it stings at all. We knew that Mrs. Thorpe spent a little time in her closet every morning before she came to breakfast, and we determined to seek her there.

"There is another thing I have been considering!" said Amabel, when this matter was finally settled. "We have lived a very idle life, lately. Just think! We have been here nearly three weeks, and what have we to show for it? Not one thing."

"We have read a good deal!" I answered.

"Yes! But not in a way to do us any good. We have not done any lessons, or worked, either for ourselves or the poor; we have not kept to any rule, such as we have always been used to."

"I know it!" I answered! "I have thought of it a good many times. But then you know, Amabel, we have never been used to making rules, or deciding anything for ourselves, and somehow one does not know how to set about it."

"But people must learn to make rules for themselves!" said Amabel, with that gentle decision which has always characterized her, when her mind is made up. "Only a very small part of the people in the world can live in convents: otherwise everything would be at a stand still. And those who live in the world, must often decide for themselves, and regulate their own conduct, and I don't see why we should not do so."

"But, Amabel, we cannot observe all our own convent rules here!" I objected. "It would turn the house upside down, if we were to insist on having our meals at just such times as we used to at St. Jean."

"Those things are not of much consequence!" answered Amabel. "For aught I know, one may as well eat at one time as another. But we can take certain hours for working for the poor, and others for profitable reading and so on. That would disturb nobody; and I am sure we should accomplish a great deal more, and feel better ourselves. Suppose we make a set of clothes for that poor little lame girl we went to see yesterday. It will soon be cold weather, and she will need a warm gown and woolen hose. Did you not see how thin her things were, and how carefully mended?"

I agreed that it would be a very good plan, and then we sat a few minutes in silence.

"There is one thing that puzzles me!" said I presently. "Every one says, that the religious life is the highest, and yet it is plain that only a few people out of all the world can enter it; because, as you say, the work of the world would come to a stand still, if nobody married and brought up children, and were shop-keepers and lawyers, and so on. But yet, it seems as if every one ought to serve God in the best possible way; and if the religious life is the best way, then every one ought to be religious. I do not understand it."

"Every one has not a vocation!" said Amabel.

"But if a vocation pleases God most, then every one ought to have it!" I persisted.

"I have heard Mother Prudentia say, that the religious were like the cream that rises to the top of the milk!" said Amabel. "The skimmed milk may have its uses too."

"The skimmed milk may have its uses, but I don't believe it is the best for the children!" I returned. "And that is what they get, poor things, if all the best women are to become nuns, and leave only the second-rate ones to become mothers and bring up the little ones."

"Now you are reasoning, and using your own private judgment!" said Amabel, a little severely—"And you know the church forbids that."

I did not answer but I thought all the more. How was I to help using my private judgment, so long as I was in a world full of things to be judged? And even if I gave up in everything to the church, was it not because my private judgment told me that was the right way? It was a very puzzling business, and the worst was, that having begun to think, I could not stop.

"There!" said Amabel, rising as the clock struck eight. "Now we can go to Mrs. Thorpe. Come, Lucy!"

We found the good woman in her closet; a small room opening from her parlor, where she had a table, and chair, a shelf or two of books, a clock, and her large Bible and prayer-book, both of which lay open.

"Good morning, my dear young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, as heartily as if nothing had happened. "I did not think you would be awake so early, and told Betsy not to disturb you."

"We have been up a long time, but we did not wish to interrupt you!" answered Amabel. "Mrs. Thorpe we have come to say, that we are very sorry for what happened yesterday, and we will never go anywhere again without your permission."

"And I am sorry I cried so last night!" I added on my own account.

Crying when reproved was a great offence in our convent days.

"Bless you, my dear, you could not help it; it was only a fit of the mother—hysterics, folks call it nowadays—from being tired, and over-wrought. But I don't want to be arbitrary with you, my dears. You are not children any more, and though I do hold to absolute obedience on the part of young folks to their elders who have the charge, and must answer for them, yet I would have it a reasonable, and not a blind obedience. The world, my dears, is full of snares for the young, and especially for young maids—snares of which they know and can know nothing, neither what they are nor how to guard against them; neither should they wish to know, seeing that the very knowledge of evil tends in some measure to corrupt the mind.

"'Can a man touch pitch, and not be defiled?' asks the good book? And so young people, and particularly young maids, whether gentle or simple, must be contented to do what they are bid, and come and go as they are told by those to whom the Lord has given the ordering of them. Many a girl who is now on the streets of Newcastle ruined in body and soul, and made as the offscourings of all men, might be safe at home, if she would but have trusted in, and been guided by her mother, whose heart she has broken, bringing her down in shame and sorrow to her grave."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such feeling and tenderness, that it brought the tears to both our eyes.

"There, now I have preached my little sermon, and we will say no more about this matter!" resumed Mrs. Thorpe, in a more cheerful tone. "We will have our breakfast, and then I have something else to say to you."

We usually breakfasted alone with Mrs. Thorpe, who liked to sit chatting over her cup of tea, having regulated her domestic affairs at an early hour. We had not then learned to drink tea, and Mrs. Thorpe had had a pot of chocolate prepared for us. We sat sipping it, while she opened her great subject.

"My dears, do you think you are making the most of your time?"

We looked at each other, and smiled.

"No, madam! We have been very lazy since we came hither!" answered Amabel. "Lucy and I were talking that matter over this very morning, and agreeing that we must set ourselves at work."

"Why, that is well!" said Mrs. Thorpe, evidently much pleased. "I don't much believe in praise to the face, which is open disgrace, the old rhyme says. But I must needs say, that two more candid young people I never met with." Then reverting to her subject—"I think you told me you had learned music."

"We learned to sing, and a little of the organ," Amabel answered.

"How would you like to learn the harpsichord?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

Amabel's eyes sparkled. We had seen one of these wonderful instruments at Mrs. Lowther's school, whither we had gone one day with Mrs. Thorpe; and we had heard one of her young ladies play a lesson of Mr. Handel's.

"Because!" continued Mrs. Thorpe without waiting for an answer, or perhaps seeing one in our faces. "I have taken a fine instrument from a lady in this town who owed me money, and had no other means of paying me; and I would rather you used it than not. I daresay now, you are thinking it was hard-hearted in me, to take the poor lady's harpsichord," added Mrs. Thorpe abruptly, changing the subject.

"No, madam! I do not believe you would ever do anything hard!" I answered.

"If the lady had been poor, and had gone in debt for necessaries, I should never have done it!" continued Mrs. Thorpe; "but such was not the case. She is a widow lady, with a handsome jointure enough, to maintain her as nicely as need be, in a somewhat quiet way, but that does not satisfy her. No! She must needs flaunt it with the finest in the county; and she has run in debt on every side, till there is hardly a tradesman within a mile who has her not on his books. Not one thing does she ever deny herself that she wants. Poor Gileson the confectioner, who has a sickly wife and six little ones, told me that she owed him more than fifty pounds.

"Ah! My dears, we hear much about hard-hearted creditors, but I have seen a deal more of hard-hearted debtors in my time. But I had no mind to wait on my fine lady or to lose by her either; so I told her I must have either money or money's worth before night; so she turned me over this harpsichord and some laces. Now I know an excellent elderly gentleman in this part of the town, who plays very finely. He is the organist in Mr. Cheriton's church, and is glad to eke out a living for himself and his wife, by giving lessons in music, arithmetic, and other things, for he is a fine scholar they tell me. What would you say to taking some lessons of this gentleman? It would occupy you pleasantly, and you would be improving yourselves at the same time.

"I was never for driving young folks from morning till night, but I don't like to see their days running to waste, either. Time, my dear young ladies, is a thing which once lost, can never return. If you lose your health, you may recover it; if your money, you may earn or inherit more; but days wasted can never be found again, either in time or eternity, that I know of."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke impressively, as was her wont when on serious subjects.

"But not to talk of that now," she added in her usual business-like tone. "Your honored father, Mrs. Amabel, bade me use my own judgment with regard to your expenses, so I am not afraid to undertake this matter. The harpsichord will be here this morning, and I will send to Mr. Lilburne to wait upon you at once."

"There is another thing we were talking of this morning," said Amabel when this matter was settled. "Lucy and I were always accustomed to spend some of our time in working for the poor while we lived at St. Jean, and we thought if you approved, we would make some warm garments and hose for that poor lame girl we went to see yesterday. We both have most of the money left that you brought us and if you would kindly buy us the stuffs and the worsted, we might set ourselves at work directly."

She put her hand in her pocket as she spoke, and withdrew it with a very startled look.

"My purse is gone!" said she. "And just look—my pocket is cut open from the top to the bottom."

"It must have been done at the theatre last night," said Mrs. Thorpe, looking at the pocket which had clearly been slit from top to bottom with some sharp instrument. "Were you much mixed up in the crowd?"

"Yes. Don't you remember, Amabel, how we were squeezed just outside the door? The man could hardly make way through the press. And mine is gone too," I added, pulling out my pocket as I spoke, and having much ado not to burst into tears. It was the very first money I had ever owned, and it seemed such a cruelty to deprive me of it, and where were poor Annie's warm clothes to come from?

"I dare say the pickpockets made a fine harvest," said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a very favorite scheme of theirs, and the theatre is a favorite place for their operations. But there, don't cry, my dears, perhaps I can help you about the clothes. You had better look at your camlet dresses and see whether they do not need mending, and if so do it at once. Camlet ravels so badly. I will match the color for you in fine sewing-silk."

A customer at this moment called Mrs. Thorpe into the shop.

We betook ourselves to our own room, and there we did have a little cry together over our lost guineas. But there was no use in wasting time in regrets, and there were our new gowns of plum-colored silk camlet, each with a long slit down the side to be mended.

Mrs. Thorpe matched the silk nicely, and after the repairs were finished, we set to collecting all our working materials. We had begun several pieces at St. Jean, and purchased quite a little store of embroidery silks and lace thread, in Toulon. Amabel proposed that we should take up these pieces and finish them in rotation. We still had our table covered with them when Mrs. Thorpe came up and began admiring them.

"I'll tell you what, my dear Mrs. Amabel and Mrs. Lucy, (I shall never learn to use this new-fangled title, and I don't know that I care to either. In my young days, to call a lady a Miss was to give her about the worst name one could devise), but I'll tell you what, young ladies, I was going to offer to provide you with the stuff for your work, but if you choose to finish these two cravats which I see you have begun, I can sell them for you for money enough to clothe the poor girl and send her to school into the bargain, and then the gift will be all your own. But they must be done soon, for fashions, you know, change like the moon, only one can't calculate on their changes."

Here was an unexpected way out of our trouble. I confess the thought did cross my mind that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of young ladies of quality to work for money, and I said as much to Amabel when Mrs. Thorpe had left the room to superintend the moving of the harpsichord.

"But we are working for the poor in making the lace as much as if we were knitting hose or making shifts," replied Amabel. "The mothers and sisters used to work for money, and they were of noble family."

"But they were religious, and vowed to humility and poverty," I objected. "Does not that make a difference?"

"The more I think about it, the more it seems to me, that no one person is bound to be religious more than another," said Amabel. "You know we should both have become nuns if we had had our way, and why are we to be less devoted because we live here instead of at St. Jean?"

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books, and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson, promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it.

This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece, when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation—

"Mrs. Deborah Leighton—your aunt, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, Mrs. Amabel."

We both rose to our feet with a start and curtsied to the tall lady in a riding habit who stood in the door.

Mrs. Deborah was the oldest of the ladies at Highbeck Hall, and was at that time turned of fifty. She wore her own gray hair without powder, turned up under a man's beaver with a handsome feather and gold clasp. I had never seen a riding habit near at hand at that time, and the coat and waistcoat, almost exactly like a man's, with the deep-laced pockets and cravat, struck me with surprise. Mrs. Deborah wore large gold ear-rings, and the seals of a watch dangled below her waistcoat. In her hand she carried a riding whip with a silver handle.

"There, don't come too near me, girls! I don't suppose there is any infection about me, but it is best to be safe," she said, speaking in a strong deep voice, which yet had a certain music in it. "I need not ask which is which. This, I am sure, is Amabel, from her looks, and this Cornish girl is Lucy Corbet. You are your father's girl, child, as Amabel is her mother's," looking at me with a curious contraction of her mouth, as of one in momentary pain. "Your father was a goodly and gallant man, child. I knew him well. And your mother was one of whom the world was not worthy. There, be a good girl and you shall never want a friend while I live. And you are Amabel, eh!" turning to her. "You are a beauty like your mother, but beauty is a fading flower—you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, madam," answered Amabel.

"Well, and how do you find yourselves? I will sit with you a little, seeing I am here, and my good friend, Mrs. Thorpe, will send me a glass of ale."

Mrs. Thorpe withdrew on this hint, and Mrs. Deborah seated herself near the door and continued her catechism.

"There, there, sit down—" For, of course, we had remained standing. "And how do you find yourselves? Are you comfortable here?"

"Yes, madam, we are very happy here," Amabel answered.

"But what do you do with yourselves? Do you go out? You must not dawdle away your lives, you know. When we have you at Highbeck, we will teach you to ride; but that will not be very soon, I fear."

We told her how Mrs. Thorpe had arranged for our lessons from Mr. Lilburne.

"A most respectable person. I know him well, but methinks you should have a governess, or something of that sort. Have you not even a maid?"

"No, madam, we have always been used to wait upon ourselves," answered Amabel.

"Perhaps that is a good thing; however, I will see about it. Now, girls, I—we, I should say—hoped to have you at home before this time, but poor Chloe has had the smallpox as well as two of the maids, and Burdon, our butler—a pretty thing to be sure to be taking smallpox at his time of life. Poor Sister Chloe is not getting up well. She has a cough and pains in her chest, and the doctor says she should have a change. So we are going to take her to Cullercoats for the sea air and to drink the waters, and leave the house to be thoroughly aired and cleaned. We may be gone till near Christmas, and what to do with you in the meantime? You are rather old for school except as parlor boarders, and I do not like that way of living. What do you say, niece? You look like a sensible, steady young woman—tell me what you think of the matter."

"Why should we not remain as we are, madam—"

"Don't say madam, say Aunt Deborah," interrupted the lady.

"Why should we not stay as we are, Aunt Deborah? Mrs. Thorpe is very kind and looks after us well, and she has put us in the way of improving ourselves, as you see. Why should we not stay here?"

"I have no objection, I am sure, so you are properly looked after, as you say," replied Mrs. Deborah. "But you must not run about alone, or with any one but such as Mrs. Thorpe recommends. I will talk to her about this matter of a governess or companion. She is a good woman and well brought up, and a safe adviser for you. But what is this, and whom have we here?"

The new-comer whom Betsy brought up stairs was no less a person than Mrs. Wilson, Lady Throckmorton's maid. She came with inquiries from her mistress as to our health, and an announcement that her ladyship would call at two o'clock in her carriage to carry us abroad for an airing. The woman had taken no notice of Mrs. Deborah, who sat listening. Her black eye-brows gathered closer together till they met above her nose. I came afterward to watch the drawing together of those eye-brows as one watches a thunder-cloud. When Mrs. Wilson had done, Mrs. Deborah answered deliberately, as though weighing every word.

"Then you may tell my Lady Throckmorton from me, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, the aunt of these young ladies and their guardian, that neither now nor at any other time will they go abroad with her. I absolutely forbid their having any thing to do with her. Do you hear me, woman?"

It was evident from Mrs. Wilson's face that she did both hear and understand, but she took no notice of Mrs. Deborah, except to turn her back upon her while she repeated her message to us.

"You have your answer," said Amabel with dignity. "Do you not hear? We are obliged to Lady Throckmorton for her goodness, but my aunt has forbidden us to go out with her."

"Now, or at any time!" added Mrs. Deborah.

"Please to return these things to your mistress!" said Amabel, putting into Wilson's hand a parcel containing the finery she had lent us, and which we had packed up to send by Timothy.

Mrs. Deborah Watched her down the stairs, as a dog watches the retreat of some intruder, whom he has half a mind to fly at and rend. She then shut the door, and returned to her seat.

"What does this mean?" she asked. "Have you set up gadding already? How came you to know this fine lady?"

Amabel told her the story of our adventures, and her knitted brows gradually relaxed, especially when I took the blame on myself, saying that I thought Amabel would not have gone but for me.

"Well, well! You are but young, and as new to the world as callow goslings!" said she.

"Lady Throckmorton was your mother's friend once, Amabel, and for her sake, I am sorry now, that I sent her so rude a message. But she was very different in those days. She has been talked about—compromised, though I say not, that she was aught but imprudent. She lives for the world, and calls about her all the gay dissipated young sparks in the country, such as I would not have you meet. She plays high too, and has, I hear, lost a great deal of money. There, we will say no more, only mind, I will have no more visiting or going out with her. Well! And where have you been to church? Next door, I suppose. Mr. Cheriton's father lives in our parts, and though poor, is a gentleman of good family. He is like enough to become heir to Lord Carew in Devonshire, I hear. How do you like the son? He is called a good preacher."

Amabel replied that we had not heard him preach, though we had made his acquaintance, and explained that being Catholics, we had not been to church, the only chapel in Newcastle being closed at present.

"Catholics, eh! I never thought of that," said Mrs. Deborah, looking rather annoyed. "It has always been the rule in our family that the girls should follow their mother's religion; but my nephew, it seems, has found means to evade it. I don't know what my sisters will say. But never mind, now, your consciences shan't be interfered with, if I can help it. Well, then we will consider matters settled, and that you are to stay here. I will talk to Mrs. Thorpe about a proper companion for you. Meantime, here is a token for each of you!" and she laid down two guineas upon the table. "Oh, by the way, niece, have you heard from your father?"

"No, aunt!" answered Amabel. "I had hoped for a letter, or perhaps a sight of him before long."

"I do not believe he will come north at present—and perhaps it is just as well on the whole, that he should not!" answered Mrs. Deborah. "His wife has great influence with him, and from all I hear, she is not likely to let him burn his fingers; not that I believe these tales of the Prince's landing. Well, there! Good-bye. Be good girls, and God bless you."

We looked at each other, as the door closed on Mrs. Deborah.

"Well, how do you like her?" said I.

"Very much!" answered Amabel, with decision, as usual. "I think she is rather rough, but I am sure she is good. How very kindly she spoke to you. Do you not like her?"

"Yes! Very much," I answered.

And indeed, Mrs. Deborah's way of putting me on an equality with Amabel, had extracted from my mind a root of bitterness which had vegetated there for a long time. Ever since our last talk with Mother Superior about returning to England, I had fully made up my mind never to leave Amabel, whatever happened. But I had shed some proud tears in secret, at the thought of being degraded from an equal and companion, to a mere waiting-woman. That trial was not to come upon me, at least for the present.

That same afternoon, a messenger came from Lady Throckmorton, bringing back the aprons that we had worn at the theatre, with the following note.

"Girls:

"You may tell your aunt, that I might easily enough repay the affront she has seen fit to put upon me, but I scorn such paltry revenge. As to you, I meant to do you a kindness which you might have taken for such; but of course, such chits as you have to do as you are bid. I am not in the habit of taking back my gifts, for such I meant 'em. You can either keep the things, or put 'em in the fire.

"CLARISSA THROCKMORTON."

"What shall we do with the things?" said I, taking up the packet, which Amabel had laid on the table.

"We can do nothing but keep them, under the circumstances!" answered Amabel.

"I am sure I don't want to have them," said I.

"Nor I. Perhaps we can find a way of bestowing them in charity some time; meantime let us put them away. I am glad my aunt laid her commands on us so plainly, it saves us a great deal of trouble."

"What shall we do if Lady Throckmorton writes to your father, as she said she meant to do?" I asked, remembering all at once, all her ladyship had said on that matter.

"We shall see when the time comes."

"But you must allow, Amabel, it was kind in her to ask us!" said I. "She could have had no motive in it, but to give us pleasure, that I see."

"I am not so sure!" answered Amabel. "I don't like to look out for mean motives. At the same time, I can't help remembering a word she let drop—'I must positively have you with me. Nothing draws like a new face.' Don't you recollect?"

I did recollect, and my ever ready pride brought the blood to my cheeks, as I thought of being used as a decoy to capture the kind of game which Lady Throckmorton affected. "Well, I know one thing, I wish we had never seen her!" said I.

"We never should have seen her probably, if we had obeyed Mrs. Thorpe's hints, and stayed up stairs," answered Amabel. "But come, never mind her. Hear me play over my lesson."

Amabel took to the harpsichord at once. I cannot say I ever liked it. I was fond of singing and of the lute, and I believe I might with proper instruction have become something of a proficient upon the latter. But I liked best of all to do fine needle work, for which I always drew my own patterns, mostly from nature.

That very afternoon, taking a longer walk than usual, we found ourselves outside the walls, where was quite a little coppice of wood and brambles. Here, I discovered some fern leaves of a kind quite new to me, and very graceful. Such things always gave me a degree of exquisite delight, such as I could never find words to express; and which I believe Amabel thought rather childish. I carried home a handful of the leaves and arranged them into a pattern.

Mrs. Thorpe had in her shop some beautifully fine and sheer linen, which she said came from China. I bought a square of this linen with a part of the guinea Mrs. Deborah had given me, and began a handkerchief, which so interested me, that I found myself in danger of forgetting my lessons altogether; till I made a positive rule to myself, that I would work at it only just so long every day.

If there was some trouble in being thus forced to decide for ourselves, there was also a good deal of pleasure, and it had this advantage; that our minds and wills were made stronger, instead of weaker by the process.

After a day or two, Mrs. Thorpe announced to us that she had found a lady who would come to us every day from nine till six; walk out with us and give us such instruction, especially in English, as was in her power. I confess I was not pleased with the prospect, and I suppose Mrs. Thorpe saw as much in my face, for she added—

"You know, ladies, I am only acting in accordance with Mrs. Deborah's orders. I dare say, you find it pleasanter to be by your two selves; but you know, my dears, that the pleasantest things are not always the best. Mrs. Cropsey is a very well-educated lady, who has seen good society in her day; but she has lately been left a widow, having lost her husband and two children, as it were, at one blow; and she is only too glad to do something to support herself—poor thing."

"Who was her husband?" asked Amabel.

"He was a clergyman of the church of England, Mrs. Amabel—a poor curate, to a gentleman who holds two livings, and a stall at Durham besides. Poor Mr. Cropsey caught a fever from a poor man he attended, and carried it home to his children. They just managed to make both ends meet in his lifetime, and you may guess there was not much left for his widow. I don't wish to speak evil of dignities, or to criticise my spiritual pastors, which is against the catechism, and bad manners besides; but I must say it does vex me to see Doctor Turnbull riding in his fine coach, with his lady and daughters, dressed out as never was, spending money like water; while the poor creatures that do all the real work, have hardly bread to eat, nor clothes to cover their backs and those of their children, not to mention money to lay up against a rainy day."

"Our priests do not marry!" observed Amabel, with a little tone of superiority. "So they have no cares of this world to distract them from their sacred duties."

Mrs. Thorpe smiled—a shrewd, slightly sarcastic smile, of which I had learned to be a little afraid.

"My dear!" she asked abruptly. "How many priests did you ever know anything about?"

We looked at each other.

"There was Father Brousseau!" said I.

"And the Bishop—but we could not say we knew him, of course; we only saw him two or three times," added Amabel.

"And Father Dubois!" I added.

Amabel frowned at me.

The truth was, that Father Dubois had come for two or three weeks in place of Father Brousseau, when that gentleman was called away; and had created a sad scandal by drinking too much wine, and singing songs which were not sacred by any manner of means.

"You see you are hardly competent to decide on that matter," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen a good many priests in my travels, both French and German."

"I am sure Father Brousseau is a good man!" said I, rather indignantly, as Mrs. Thorpe apparently pulled herself up, in what she was about to say.

"That he is, my child!" agreed Mrs. Thorpe, emphatically. "I wish all clergymen, both priests and ministers, were like him. But to return to the matter in hand. I hope, my dears, you will like this lady, and be kind to her. Young persons can do very much to make the lives of their governesses pleasant and easy, or the reverse. I am not much acquainted with Mrs. Cropsey, but Mr. Cheriton knows her well, and indeed it was he who recommended her to me."

"I dare say we shall like her very much!" replied Amabel promptly. "And as you say, it will no doubt, be better for us to have some one with us, to overlook our employments, as we have always been used to do. When is she coming?"

"She has asked to wait till next week, as she has to settle up her affairs, and dispose of what furniture she has. Mr. Cheriton has bought the poor gentleman's books, of which he had a good many, considering. Mrs. Cropsey has insisted on giving me two china jugs, which were her mother's, on account of a debt she owes me, for thread, hose, and so on. I don't wish to sell them, so with your leave, I will put them on the top of your cabinet, here. Perhaps she may buy them back some day."

"What do you think?" I asked of Amabel, as Mrs. Thorpe left the room.

"About Mrs. Cropsey? I think we must make the best of her, and learn all we can of her. Anyhow, Lucy, we won't be set against her beforehand; that would not be fair. I dare say she is a nice person."

"She must be, of course, since Mr. Cheriton recommended her!" said I demurely, and bestowing extra pains on the stem of my fern.

"I suppose he would not recommend her, of course, unless he considered her suitable," returned Amabel, and she immediately began practising with such energy that there was no more chance for conversation.

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