fact that the river water was drunk by themselves and a large number of the inhabitants of the city in any way interfere with their satisfaction at the convenience of these domestic arrangements.  The beat, beat of the great water wheel was always in their ears to remind them; but no misgivings had yet assailed our forefathers as to the desirability of drinking water polluted by sewage and other abominations.  True, the plague was constantly desolating the city, and had been raging so violently but a single year back that the King’s coronation had well nigh had to be postponed, and he dared not adventure himself into London itself, nor summon his Parliament to meet him there.  But it was for another generation to put together cause and effect, and wonder how far tainted water was responsible for the spread of the fatal malady.

As Cherry entered the eating parlour, her two sisters looked up from their tasks, as if with a smile of welcome.  Jemima was busy with the almond paste, which was an important ingredient of the herring pie; Keziah was stoning the dates, grating the manchet, and preparing the numerous other ingredients—­currants, gooseberries, barberries—­which, being preserved in bottles in the spring and summer, were always ready to hand in Mistress Susan’s cookery.  From the open door of the kitchen proceeded a villainous smell of herrings, which caused Cherry to turn up her pretty nose in a grimace that set Keziah laughing.  Both these elder damsels, who were neither blooming nor pretty nor graceful, like their youngest sister, though they bid fair to be excellent housewives and docile and tractable spouses, delighted in the beauty and wit and freshness of Cherry.  They had never envied her her pretty ways and charming face, but had taken the same pleasure in both that a mother or affectionate aunt might do.  They spoke of her and thought of her as “the child,” and if any hard or disagreeable piece of work had to be done, they both vied with each other in contriving that it should not fall to Cherry’s lot.

Cherry, although she dearly loved her homely sisters, as well she might, never could quite realize that they were her sisters, and not her aunts.  Although Keziah was only six years her senior, it seemed more like ten, and Jemima had three years’ start of Keziah.  They treated her with an indulgence rare between sisters, and from the fact of their being so staid and grave for their years, Cherry could scarcely be blamed for feeling as though she was the only young thing in the house.  Her father talked of grave matters with her aunt and sisters, whilst she sat gaping in weariness or got a book in which to lose herself.  They understood those mysterious theological and political discussions which were a constant source of perplexity and irritation to Cherry.

“As if it mattered one way or another,” she would say to herself.  “I can’t see that one way is a bit better than another!  I wonder folks can care to make such a coil about it.”