“Oh, Fred is horrid!” said Rosamond.  She would not have allowed herself so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary.

“What do you mean by horrid?”

“He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take orders.”

“I think Fred is quite right.”

“How can you say he is quite right, Mary?  I thought you had more sense of religion.”

“He is not fit to be a clergyman.”

“But he ought to be fit.”—­“Well, then, he is not what he ought to be.  I know some other people who are in the same case.”

“But no one approves of them.  I should not like to marry a clergyman; but there must be clergymen.”

“It does not follow that Fred must be one.”

“But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it!  And only suppose, if he should have no fortune left him?”

“I can suppose that very well,” said Mary, dryly.

“Then I wonder you can defend Fred,” said Rosamond, inclined to push this point.

“I don’t defend him,” said Mary, laughing; “I would defend any parish from having him for a clergyman.”

“But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different.”

“Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet.”

“It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary.  You always take Fred’s part.”

“Why should I not take his part?” said Mary, lighting up.  “He would take mine.  He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige me.”

“You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary,” said Rosamond, with her gravest mildness; “I would not tell mamma for the world.”

“What would you not tell her?” said Mary, angrily.

“Pray do not go into a rage, Mary,” said Rosamond, mildly as ever.

“If your mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her that I would not marry him if he asked me.  But he is not going to do so, that I am aware.  He certainly never has asked me.”

“Mary, you are always so violent.”

“And you are always so exasperating.”

“I?  What can you blame me for?”

“Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating.  There is the bell—­I think we must go down.”

“I did not mean to quarrel,” said Rosamond, putting on her hat.

“Quarrel?  Nonsense; we have not quarrelled.  If one is not to get into a rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?”

“Am I to repeat what you have said?” “Just as you please.  I never say what I am afraid of having repeated.  But let us go down.”

Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed long enough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him, and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song of his—­“Flow on, thou shining river”—­after she had sung “Home, sweet home” (which she detested).  This hard-headed old Overreach approved of the sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also as fundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song.