once asked her for the receipt, but she had met with a very decided rebuff; that lady told her that she could not part with it to any one during her life, and that after her death it was bequeathed, as her executors would find, to Miss Matty.  What Miss Matty, or, as Mrs Forrester called her (remembering the clause in her will and the dignity of the occasion), Miss Matilda Jenkyns—­might choose to do with the receipt when it came into her possession—­whether to make it public, or to hand it down as an heirloom—­she did not know, nor would she dictate.  And a mould of this admirable, digestible, unique bread-jelly was sent by Mrs Forrester to our poor sick conjuror.  Who says that the aristocracy are proud?  Here was a lady by birth a Tyrrell, and descended from the great Sir Walter that shot King Rufus, and in whose veins ran the blood of him who murdered the little princes in the Tower, going every day to see what dainty dishes she could prepare for Samuel Brown, a mountebank!  But, indeed, it was wonderful to see what kind feelings were called out by this poor man’s coming amongst us.  And also wonderful to see how the great Cranford panic, which had been occasioned by his first coming in his Turkish dress, melted away into thin air on his second coming—­pale and feeble, and with his heavy, filmy eyes, that only brightened a very little when they fell upon the countenance of his faithful wife, or their pale and sorrowful little girl.

Somehow we all forgot to be afraid.  I daresay it was that finding out that he, who had first excited our love of the marvellous by his unprecedented arts, had not sufficient every-day gifts to manage a shying horse, made us feel as if we were ourselves again.  Miss Pole came with her little basket at all hours of the evening, as if her lonely house and the unfrequented road to it had never been infested by that “murderous gang”; Mrs Forrester said she thought that neither Jenny nor she need mind the headless lady who wept and wailed in Darkness Lane, for surely the power was never given to such beings to harm those who went about to try to do what little good was in their power, to which Jenny tremblingly assented; but the mistress’s theory had little effect on the maid’s practice until she had sewn two pieces of red flannel in the shape of a cross on her inner garment.

I found Miss Matty covering her penny ball—­the ball that she used to roll under her bed—­with gay-coloured worsted in rainbow stripes.

“My dear,” said she, “my heart is sad for that little careworn child.  Although her father is a conjuror, she looks as if she had never had a good game of play in her life.  I used to make very pretty balls in this way when I was a girl, and I thought I would try if I could not make this one smart and take it to Phoebe this afternoon.  I think ‘the gang’ must have left the neighbourhood, for one does not hear any more of their violence and robbery now.”