’Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about others?  I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday.’

Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to her husband.  We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:—­

“Sweetest Milly, Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with us on Friday at seven—­do.  If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very moment.  Yours, according to your answer,

Caroline Czerlaski.”

‘Just like her, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Barton.  ‘I suppose we can go?’

‘Yes; I have no engagement.  The Clerical Meeting is tomorrow, you know.’

’And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next week.  He has a payment to make up.’

This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful.  He puffed more rapidly, and looked at the fire.

’I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two months till Lady-day, and we can’t give Woods our last shilling.’

’I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear—­he and Mrs. Hackit have been so very kind to us; they have sent us so many things lately.’

’Then I must ask Oldinport.  I’m going to write to him tomorrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I’ve been thinking of about having service in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged.  If he agrees to attend service there once or twice, the other people will come.  Net the large fish, and you’re sure to have the small fry.’

’I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don’t see how we can.  Poor Fred must have some new shoes; I couldn’t let him go to Mrs. Bond’s yesterday because his toes were peeping out, dear child! and I can’t let him walk anywhere except in the garden.  He must have a pair before Sunday.  Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of my life.  Everything else one can turn and turn about, and make old look like new; but there’s no coaxing boots and shoes to look better than they are.’

Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing boots and shoes.  She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers which had long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, and were now running a respectable career as black silk slippers, having been neatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton’s own neat fingers.  Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spend a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece of calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysterious little garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs.  She was even trying to persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor.