with energetic fervour, she was sure.  But energetic fervour in prayer was, she thought, of no use,—­nay, was likely to be most dangerous, when used in furtherance of human prepossessions and desires.  Had Hester said her prayers with a proper feeling of self-negation,—­in that religious spirit which teaches the poor mortal here on earth to know that darkness and gloom are safer than mirth and comfort,—­then the Lord would have told her to leave Folking, to go back to Puritan Grange, and to consent once more to be called Hester Bolton.  This other counsel had not come from the Lord,—­had come only from Hester’s own polluted heart.  But she was not at the moment armed with words sufficiently strong to explain all this.

‘Hester,’ she said, ’does not all this mean that your own proud spirit is to have a stronger dominion over you than the experience and wisdom of all your friends?’

’Perhaps it does.  But, at any rate, my proud spirit will retain its pride.’

‘You will be obstinate?’

’Certainly I will.  Nothing on earth shall make me leave this house till I am told by its owner to go.’

‘Who is its owner?  Old Mr. Caldigate is its owner.’

’I hardly know.  Though John has explained it again and again, I am so bad at such things that I am not sure.  But I can do what I please with it.  I am the mistress here.  As you say that the Grange is your house, I can say that this is mine.  It is the abode appointed for me, and here I will abide.’

’Then, Hester, I can only tell you that you are sinning.  It is a heavy, grievous, and most obvious sin.’

’Dear mother,—­dear mamma; I knew how it would be if you came.  It is useless for me to say more.  Were I to go away, that to me would be the sin.  Why should we discuss it any more?  There comes a time to all of us when we must act on our own responsibility.  My husband is in prison, and cannot personally direct me.  No doubt I could go, were I so pleased.  His father would not hinder me, though he is most unwilling that I should go.  I must judge a little for myself.  But I have his judgment to fall back upon.  He told me to stay, and I shall stay.’

Then there was a pause, during which Mrs. Bolton was thinking of her burning words,—­was remembering the scorn with which she had treated her husband when he told her that they had ‘no power.’  She had endeavoured herself not to be sleepy in doing the Lord’s work.  But her seed, too, had fallen upon stony places.  She was powerless to do, or even to say, anything further.  ‘Then I may go,’ she muttered.

‘You will come and eat with me, mamma?’

‘No, my dear,—­no.’

‘You do not wish that there should be a quarrel?’

’There is very much, Hester, that I do not wish.  I have long ceased to trust much to any wishes.  There is a great gulf between us, and I will not attempt to bridge it by the hollow pretence of sitting at table with you.  I will still pray that you may be restored to me.’  Then she went to the door.