“Miles wanted me to know his family, and thought I should be useful to his mother,” said Anne; “but she does not want anything I could do for her.  If she has Raymond, she seems to need nobody else.”

“And have you nothing to do?”

“I have letters to write to Miles and to them all at home; and I am making a whole set of shirts and stockings for papa and the boys—­it will spare mamma and Jeanie, and I have plenty of time.”

“Too much, I am afraid!  But Herbert said you were very useful at the Work Society at Wil’sbro’.”

“Not now.”

“Indeed!”

“No,” in the old cold dry tone.  But while Jenny was doubting whether to inquire further, innate sympathy conquered, and Anne added, “I wonder whether I did wrong!”

“As how?” asked Joanna, kindly.

“They said”—­she lowered her voice—­“I must never speak on religious subjects.”

“How do you mean?  What had you done?”

“One day I found a woman crying because her husband had gone away to seek work, so I told her my husband was further away and repeated the texts I like.  She was so much comforted that I printed them on a card for her.”

“Was that all?”

“No; there was another poor dear that was unhappy about her baby; and when I bade her pray for it, she did not know how, so I had to tell her a little.  There is one who does know her Saviour, and I did love to have a few words of peace with her.”

“And was that what was objected to?”

“Yes; they said it would change the whole character of the institution.”

“Who did?”

“Cecil—­Mrs. Charnock Poynsett.  I think Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Duncombe desired her.  I thought it was no place for me where I might not speak one word for Christ, and I said so; but since I have wondered whether the old Adam did not speak in me, and I ought to have gone on.”

“My wonder,” said Jenny, indignantly, “would be what right they had to stop you.  This was private interference, not from the Vicar or the committee.”

“But I am not a real visiting lady.  I only go to help Cecil.”

“I see; but why didn’t you ask Julius what was right?  He would have told you.”

“Oh, no, I could not.”

“Why not?”

“It would seem like a complaint of Cecil.  Besides—­”

“Besides?”

“I don’t think Julius is a Christian.”

The startling announcement was made in so humble and mournful a voice as almost to disarm Jenny’s resentment; and before she had recovered enough for a reply, she was called to take leave of her parents.

Her brother was the professed object of her visit, and she was only at the Hall because there was no accommodation at his lodgings, so that she had no scruple in joining the early breakfast spread for the Rector and his wife, so as to have the morning free for him; but she found Julius alone, saying that his wife was tired after the party; and to Jenny’s offer to take her class, he replied, “Thank you, it will be a great kindness if you will teach; but Rose has no regular class.  Teaching is not much in her line; and it is a pity she should have to do it, but we have to make the most of the single hour they allow us for godliness.”