cushion by my lady’s chair.  That, to be sure, is not the way of the world:  if it happens to see a fellow of fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no faux pas, and wins golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, There would be a proper match!  Not at all, say I:  let that successful, well-shapen, discreet and able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts are often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence.  She—­the sweet woman—­will like it as well; for her sublime capacity of loving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton’s nature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the man you would perhaps have had in your eye for her—­a man with sufficient income and abundant personal eclat.  Besides, Amos was an affectionate husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, ‘Well, Milly!’

‘Well, dear!’ was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile.

‘So that young rascal won’t go to sleep!  Can’t you give him to Nanny?’

’Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I’ll take him to her now.’  And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the sitting-room.  Maize is a colour that decidedly did not suit his complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton select it for domestic wear?  Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar.

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of stockings.  She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she would not enter on it at once.  ‘Have you had a nice evening, dear?’

’Yes, pretty well.  Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early.  Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance.  But I don’t think he’s much smitten.  I’ve a notion Ely’s engaged to some one at a distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him here, by bringing home his bride one of these days.  Ely’s a sly dog; he’ll like that.’

‘Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?’

’Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in the choir.  But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune of “Lydia.”  He says he’s always hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting.’  Here Mr. Barton laughed—­he had a way of laughing at criticisms that other people thought damaging—­and thereby showed the remainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for wear.  ‘But,’ he continued, ’Mrs. Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess.  She has taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought.’