“How do you do,” she said in a happy voice, smiling gaily at both of them.  She had seen neither since she had dismissed them, but naturally she had never given that strange proceeding a thought.

“Oh—­how do you do,” said Lady Shuttleworth, surprised to see her there, and with a slight and very unusual confusion of manner.

Mrs. Morrison said nothing but stood stiffly in the background, answering Priscilla’s smile with a stern, reluctant nod.

“I’ve been talking to poor old Mrs. Jones.  Your son”—­she looked at Mrs. Morrison—­“told me how ill she was.”

“Did he?” said Mrs. Morrison, hardly raising her eyes a moment from the ground.  This girl was her double enemy:  bound, whatever she did, to make either a fool of her son or of her daughter.

“So I went in and tried to cheer her up.  And I really believe I did.”

“Well that was very kind of you,” said Lady Shuttleworth, smiling in spite of herself, unable to withstand the charm of Priscilla’s personality.  How supremely ridiculous of Mrs. Morrison to think that this girl was an adventuress.  Such are the depths of ignorance one can descend to if one is buried long enough in the country.

“Now,” said Priscilla cheerfully, “she wants rum, and I’m just going to buy her some.”

“Rum?” cried Lady Shuttleworth in a voice of horror; and Mrs. Morrison started violently.

“Is it bad for her?” said Priscilla, surprised.

“Bad!” cried Lady Shuttleworth.

“It is,” said Mrs. Morrison with her eyes on the ground, “poison for both body and soul.”

“Dear me,” said Priscilla, her face falling.  “Why, she said it would comfort her.”

“It will poison both her body and her soul,” repeated Mrs. Morrison grimly.

“My dear,” said Lady Shuttleworth, “our efforts are all directed towards training our people to keep from drinking.”

“But she doesn’t want to drink,” said Priscilla.  “She only wants to taste it now and then.  I’m afraid she’s dying.  Mustn’t she die happy?”

“It is our duty,” said Mrs. Morrison, “to see that our parishioners die sober.”

“But I’ve promised,” said Priscilla.

“Did she—­did she ask for it herself?” asked Lady Shuttleworth, a great anxiety in her voice.

“Yes, and I promised.”

Both the women looked very grave.  Mrs. Jones, who was extremely old and certainly dying—­not from any special disease but from mere inability to go on living—­had been up to this a shining example to Symford of the manner in which Christian old ladies ought to die.  As such she was continually quoted by the vicar’s wife, and Lady Shuttleworth had felt an honest pride in this ordered and seemly death-bed.  The vicar went every day and sat with her and said that he came away refreshed.  Mrs. Morrison read her all those of her leaflets that described the enthusiasm with which other good persons behave