to her niece’s historical inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by a shake of the head—­when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the yard pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted person presently made its appearance upstairs.  He found Mrs. Patten going on so well that there was no need to look solemn.  He might glide from condolence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of having Mrs. Hackit’s ear was irresistible.

‘What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson’s,’ was the remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself back in the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.  ‘Eh, dear me!’ said Mrs. Hackit, ’disgraceful enough.  I stuck to Mr. Barton as long as I could, for his wife’s sake; but I can’t countenance such goings-on.  It’s hateful to see that woman coming with ’em to service of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn’t churchwarden and I didn’t think it wrong to forsake one’s own parish, I should go to Knebley Church.  There’s a many parish’ners as do.’

‘I used to think Barton was only a fool,’ observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone which implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable.  ’I thought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first came.  But that’s impossible now.’

‘O, it’s as plain as the nose in your face,’ said Mrs. Hackit, unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison—­’comin’ to Milby, like a sparrow perchin’ on a bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him; and then all on a sudden the brother goes off with himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons.  Though what could make her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn’t got enough to keep wife and children, there’s One above knows—­I don’t.’

‘Mr. Barton may have attractions we don’t know of,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, who piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm.  ’The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr. Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette—­laces her boots, and so forth.’

‘Tilette, be fiddled!’ said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness of metaphor; ‘an’ there’s that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone for them children—­an’ another comin’ on.  What she must have to go through!  It goes to my heart to turn my back on her.  But she’s i’ the wrong to let herself be put upon i’ that manner.’

’Ah!  I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other day.  She said, “I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n".’ (Mr. Pilgrim gave this quotation with slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had uttered a remarkable sentiment.) ’They find it impossible to invite her to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her.’

‘Well!’ remarked Miss Gibbs, ’if I was a wife, nothing should induce me to bear what Mrs. Barton does.’

‘Yes, it’s fine talking,’ said Mrs. Patten, from her pillow; ‘old maids’ husbands are al’ys well-managed.  If you was a wife you’d be as foolish as your betters, belike.’