should seek that spiritual help from another, which he, by his error, had forfeited his power to offer; he only wished they had spoken of their intention to him in an open and manly way.  But not the less did he labour on among those to whom God permitted him to be of use.  He felt age stealing upon him apace, although he said nothing about it, and no one seemed to be aware of it; and he worked the more diligently while “it was yet day.”  It was not the number of his years that made him feel old, for he was only sixty, and many men are hale and strong at that time of life; in all probability, it was that early injury to his spine which affected the constitution of his mind as well as his body, and predisposed him, in the opinion of some at least, to a feminine morbidness of conscience.  He had shaken off somewhat of this since the affair with Mr. Bradshaw; he was simpler and more dignified than he had been for several years before, during which time he had been anxious and uncertain in his manner, and more given to thought than to action.

The one happy bright spot in this grey year was owing to Sally.  As she said of herself, she believed she grew more “nattered” as she grew older; but that she was conscious of her “natteredness” was a new thing, and a great gain to the comfort of the house, for it made her very grateful for forbearance, and more aware of kindness than she had ever been before.  She had become very deaf; yet she was uneasy and jealous if she were not informed of all the family thoughts, plans, and proceedings, which often had (however private in their details) to be shouted to her at the full pitch of the voice.  But she always heard Leonard perfectly.  His clear and bell-like voice, which was similar to his mother’s till sorrow had taken the ring out of it, was sure to be heard by the old servant, though every one else had failed.  Sometimes, however, she “got her hearing sudden,” as she phrased it, and was alive to every word and noise, more particularly when they did not want her to hear; and at such times she resented their continuance of the habit of speaking loud as a mortal offence.  One day, her indignation at being thought deaf called out one of the rare smiles on Leonard’s face; she saw it, and said, “Bless thee, lad; if it but amuses thee, they may shout through a ram’s horn to me, and I’ll never let on I’m not deaf.  It’s as good a use as I can be of,” she continued to herself, “if I can make that poor lad smile a bit.”

If she expected to be everybody’s confidant, she made Leonard hers.  “There!” said she, when she came home from her marketing one Saturday night, “look here, lad!  Here’s forty-two pound, seven shillings and twopence!  It’s a mint of money, isn’t it?  I took it all in sovereigns for fear of fire.”

“What is it all for, Sally?” said he.

“Ay, lad! that’s asking.  It’s Mr. Benson’s money,” said she mysteriously, “that I’ve been keeping for him.  Is he in the study, think ye?”