or paused in her straight-onward course to the clearly-defined end which she proposed to herself.  She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk, of which not a thread was worn or discoloured.  She was mending a large long table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against the light occasionally to discover thin places, which required her delicate care.  There was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew Henry’s Bible Commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on the other.  In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano going on.  Some one was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very rapidly; every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or wholly missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them false, but not the less satisfactory to the performer.  Mrs. Thornton heard a step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the dining-room door.

‘John!  Is that you?’

Her son opened the door and showed himself.

’What has brought you home so early?  I thought you were going to tea with that friend of Mr. Bell’s; that Mr. Hale.’

‘So I am, mother; I am come home to dress!’

’Dress! humph!  When I was a girl, young men were satisfied with dressing once in a day.  Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an old parson?’

‘Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.’

’Wife and daughter!  Do they teach too?  What do they do?  You have never mentioned them.’

’No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss Hale for half an hour.’

‘Take care you don’t get caught by a penniless girl, John.’

’I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know.  But I must not have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to me.  I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I believe that any one has ever given themselves that useless trouble.’

Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or else she had, in general, pride enough for her sex.

’Well!  I only say, take care.  Perhaps our Milton girls have too much spirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale comes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true, rich husbands are reckoned prizes.’

Mr. Thornton’s brow contracted, and he came a step forward into the room.

‘Mother’ (with a short scornful laugh), ’you will make me confess.  The only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which had a strong flavour of contempt in it.  She held herself aloof from me as if she had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal.  Be easy, mother.’

’No!  I am not easy, nor content either.  What business had she, a renegade clergyman’s daughter, to turn up her nose at you!  I would dress for none of them—­a saucy set! if I were you.’  As he was leaving the room, he said:—­