The subject did not interest Mr. Percy; he began to ask questions about something else, and they soon after reached home.  Later in the day Mrs. Bellairs met him coming in extremely bored from her husband’s office.

“I am going to pay some visits,” she said, “are you disposed to go with me?”

“Most thankfully,” he answered.  “I have been listening to half-a-dozen cases of trespass, not a single word of which I could understand.  It will be doing me the greatest kindness to take me into civilized society.”

“I thought,” she said laughing, “that you came to the backwoods to escape civilized society.”

“If I did,” he replied, handing her into the pony-carriage, “it is quite clear that I made a happy mistake.”

“I am going first,” she said, as soon as Bob was fairly in motion, “to the Parsonage.  Mr. and Mrs. Bayne were to have been with us yesterday, but one of the children was ill, and I must inquire after it.”

Mr. Percy’s politeness just enabled him to suppress a groan.  He had seen Mrs. Bayne once, and not been delighted,—­and a sick child!  However, duty before all.  They stopped at the gate of the Parsonage.  It was a tolerably large house, standing on a sloping lawn, overlooking the river on one side and the little town on the other; but the lawn was entered only by a wicket, so that Bob had to be fastened to the railing, while the visitors walked up to the house.

The moment they were seen approaching three or four children ran out of the hall, where they were playing, and fell upon Mrs. Bellairs.

“Don’t eat me,” she cried, kissing them all in turn.  “Which is the invalid?  Where is mamma?”

“It was Nina,” shouted a chorus; “she fell into the river.  Mamma’s in the house.”

By this time they had reached the door, and Mrs. Bayne appeared, having been attracted by their voices.  She was a little woman, thin and worn, so worn indeed, by many children and many cares, that she looked fifty instead of thirty-five.  She had on a faded dress, and her collar and cuffs had been soiled and crumpled by the attacks of her younger boys and girls, especially the fat baby she held in her arms; but she had long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the shabbiness of her toilette, or the inevitable disorder of her sitting-room.  She found seats for her guests, and to do so pushed into the background the baby’s cradle and an old easy-chair, in which the luckless Nina was sitting bundled up in shawls.

Mrs. Bellairs took the baby, which instantly became absorbed in trying to pull out the long feather of her hat, drew her chair close to the little invalid, and began to inquire into the accident.  Mr. Percy, determined to make the best of his circumstances, endeavoured to make friends with the heir of the house, a sturdy boy of nine or ten, but as the young gentleman declined to do anything, except put his finger in his mouth and stare, he found himself without other occupation than that of listening to the conversation of the two ladies.