“I believe Mr. Jackson has a Bible-class every week.”

“But is it a Bible-class, or is it only called so?  There is Mr. Austin at Rood Warren, a Romanist in disguise if ever there was one:  he is by way of having a Bible-class, and one of our farmers’ daughters attended it.  ‘And what part of the Bible are you studying now?’ I asked her.  ’We are studying early church history.’  ’I don’t know any such chapter in the Bible as that,’ I said, and yet I know my Bible pretty well.  She explained it was a continuation of the Acts of the Apostles.  I said:  ’My dear child, don’t you be misled by any jugglery of that kind; there is no continuation of the Bible; and as to what people call the early church, its doings and sayings are of no consequence at all.  The one question we have to ask ourselves is this:  ‘"What does the Book say?"’ What is in the Book is God’s word:  what is not in the Book is only man’s.”

The effect of this exposition on Lady Atherley was to make her ask eagerly whether the curate in charge at Rood Warren was one of the Austyns of Temple Leigh.

“I believe he is a nephew,” Mrs. Mostyn admitted, quite gloomily for her.  “It is painful to see people of good standing going astray in this manner.”

“I was thinking it would be so convenient to get a young man over to dinner sometimes; and Rood Warren cannot be very far from us, for one of Mr. Austyn’s parishioners lives just at the end of Weald.”

“If you take my advice, my dearest Jane, you will not have anything to do with him.  He is certain to be attractive—­men of that sort always are; and there is no saying what he might do:  perhaps gain an influence over George himself.”

“I don’t think there need be any fear of that, for at dinner, you know, we need not have any religious discussions; I never will have them; they are almost as bad as politics, they make people so cross.”

Then she rose and explained her visit to Mrs. de Noel.

“But, Mr. Lyndsay,” said Mrs. Mostyn, “are you going to desert the old woman for the young one, or are you going to stay and see my gardens and have tea?  That is right.  Good-bye, my dearest Jane.  Give my dear love to Cissy, and tell her to come over and see me—­but I shall have a glimpse of her on your way back.”

“I hope Mrs. de Noel may be persuaded to come back,” I said, as the carriage drove off, and we walked along a gravel path by lawns of velvet smoothness; “I would so much like to meet her.”

“Have you never met her?  Dear Cecilia!  She is a sweet creature—­the sweetest, I think, I ever met, though perhaps I ought not to say so of my own niece.  She wants but one thing—­the grace of God.”

We passed into a little wood, tapestried with ivy, carpeted with clustering primroses, and she continued—­