“Adam and Eve and Pinch-me
      Went to the river to bathe: 
      Adam and Eve were drown’d,
      And who do you think was saved? . . .”

Molly drew her wrist away hurriedly.  “Hetty!” she cried, as Emilia withdrew into her book in dudgeon.  “Hetty, dear!  I cannot bear you to be flippant.  It hurts me, it is so unworthy of you.”

“Hurts you, my mouse?”—­this was one of Hetty’s tender, fantastic names for her.  “Why then, I ask your pardon and must try to amend.  You are right.  I was flippant; you might even have said vulgar.  Proceed, Emilia,—­do you hear?  I beg your pardon.  Tell us more of the Arch-Rebel—­

     “And courage never to submit or yield
      And what is else not to be overcome . . .”

Say it over in your great voice, Emmy, and purge us poor rebels of vulgarity.”

“Pardon me,” Emilia answered icily, “I am not conscious of being a rebel—­nor of any temptation to be vulgar.”

Molly shot an imploring glance at Hetty:  but it was too late, and she knew it.

“Hoity-toity!  So we are not rebellious—­not even Emilia when she thinks of her Leybourne!” Emilia bit her lip.  “Nor Patty when she thinks of Johnny Romley?  And we are never vulgar?  Ah, but forgive your poor sister, who goes into service next week!  You must allow her to practise the accomplishments which will endear her to the servants’ hall, and which Mr. Grantham will pay for and expect.  Indeed—­since Milton is denied us—­I have some lines here; a petition to be handed to mother to-night when she returns.  She may not grant it, but she must at least commend her daughter’s attempt to catch the tone.”  And drawing a folded paper from her waistband, she drawled the following, in the broadest Lincolnshire accent: 

      “Hetty the Serving-maid’s Petition to her Mother.”
       “Dear mother, you were once in the ew’n [oven],
        As by us cakes is plainly shewn,
        Who else had ne’er come arter: 
        Pray speak a word in time of need,
        And with my sour-looked father plead
        For your distressed darter!”

Nancy and Kezzy laughed; the younger at the absurd drawl, which hit off the Wroote dialect to a hair; Nancy indulgently—­she was safely betrothed to one John Lambert, an honest land-surveyor, and Mr. Wesley’s tyranny towards suitors troubled her no longer.  But the others were silent, and a tear dropped on the back of poor Molly’s hand.

As Hetty took it penitently, Patty spoke again.  “You are wrong, at all events,” she persisted, “about papa’s being in the house, for I saw him leave it, more than half an hour ago, and walk off on the Bawtry road.”

“He has gone to meet mother, then,” said Kezzy, “and poor Sander will have to trudge the last two miles.”

“Pray Heaven, then, they do not quarrel!” sighed Emilia, shutting the book.