religion, to charity, and to honest-hearted uprightness.  It is true that the circumstances of her life had induced her to serve both God and Mammon, and that, therefore, she had gloried greatly in the marriage of her daughter with the heir of a marquis.  She had revelled in the aristocratic elevation of her child, though she continued to dispense books and catechisms with her own hands to the children of the labourers of Plumstead Episcopi.  When Griselda first became Lady Dumbello the mother feared somewhat lest her child should find herself unequal to the exigencies of her new position.  But the child had proved herself more than equal to them, and had mounted up to a dizzy height of success, which brought to the mother great glory and great fear also.  She delighted to think that her Griselda was great even among the daughters of marquises; but she trembled as she reflected how deadly would be the fall from such a height—­should there ever be a fall!

But she had never dreamed of such a fall as this!  She would have said,—­indeed, she often had said,—­to the archdeacon that Griselda’s religious principles were too firmly fixed to be moved by outward worldly matters; signifying, it may be, her conviction that that teaching of Plumstead Episcopi had so fastened her daughter into a groove, that all the future teaching of Hartlebury would not suffice to undo the fastenings.  When she had thus boasted, no such idea as that of her daughter running from her husband’s house had ever come upon her; but she had alluded to vices of a nature kindred to that vice,—­to vices into which other aristocratic ladies sometimes fell, who had been less firmly grooved; and her boastings had amounted to this,—­that she herself had so successfully served God and Mammon together, that her child might go forth and enjoy all worldly things without risk of damage to things heavenly.  Then came upon her this rumour.  The archdeacon told her in a hoarse whisper that he had been recommended to look to it, that it was current through the world that Griselda was about to leave her husband.

“Nothing on earth shall make me believe it,” said Mrs Grantly.  But she sat alone in her drawing-room afterwards and trembled.  Then came her sister, Mrs Arabin, the dean’s wife, over to the parsonage, and in half-hidden words told the same story.  She had heard it from Mrs Proudie, the bishop’s wife.  “That woman is as false as the father of falsehoods,” said Mrs Grantly.  But she trembled the more; and as she prepared her parish work, could think of nothing but her child.  What would be all her life to come, what would have been all that was past of her life, if this thing should happen to her?  She would not believe it; but yet she trembled the more as she thought of her daughter’s exaltation, and remembered that such things had been done in that world to which Griselda now belonged.  Ah! would it not have been better for them if they had not raised their heads so high!  And she walked out alone among the tombs of the neighbouring churchyard, and stood over the grave in which had been laid the body of her other daughter.  Could be it that the fate of that one had been the happier.