“Stop, stop, Spruce!” she exclaimed—­“Oh dear, oh dear I Do you think I can understand all this?  Did you show the parson my clothes--actually?  You did!” For Mrs. Spruce nodded violently in the affirmative.  “Good gracious!  What a perfectly dreadful thing to do!” And she laughed again.  “And what is the saint in the Sarky?” Here she removed her hand from the mouth she was guarding.  “Say it in one word, if you can,—­what is the Sarky?”

“It’s in the church,”—­said Mrs. Spruce, dauntlessly proceeding with her flow of narrative, and encouraged thereto by the sparkling mirth in her mistress’s face—­“We calls it Sarky for short.  Josey Letherbarrow, what reads, an’ ‘as larnin’, calls it the Sarky Fagus, an’ my Kitty, she’s studied at the school, an’ she sez ’it’s Sar-Ko-fagus, mother,’ which it may be or it mayn’t, for the schools don’t know more than the public-’ouses in my opinion,—­leastways it’s a great long white coffin what’s supposed to ’ave the body of a saint inside it, an’ Mr. Walden he discovered it when he was rebuildin’ the church, an’ when the Bishop come to conskrate it, he sez ’twas a saint in there an’ that’s why the village is called St. Rest—­but you’ll find it all out yourself.  Miss, an’ as I sez an’ I don’t care who ’ears me, the real saint ain’t in the Sarky at all,—­it’s just Mr. Walden himself,—­”

Again Maryllia’s hand closed her mouth.

“You really must stop, Spruce!  You are the dearest old gabbler possible—­but you must stop!  You’ll have no breath left—­and I shall have no patience!  I’ve heard quite enough.  I met Mr. Walden this morning, and I’m sure he isn’t a saint at all!  He’s a very ordinary person indeed,—­most ordinary—­not in the very least remarkable.  I’m. glad he’s good to the people, and that they like him—­that’s really all that’s necessary, and it’s all I want to know.  Go along, Spruce!—­don’t talk to me any more about saints in the Sarky or out of the Sarky!  There never was a real saint in the world—­never!—­not in the shape of a man!”

With laughter still dancing in her eyes, she turned away, and Mrs. Spruce, in full possession of restored nerve and vivacity, bustled off on her round of household duty, the temporary awe she had felt concerning the new written code of domestic ‘Rules and Regulations’ having somewhat subsided under the influence of her mistress’s gay good-humour.  And Maryllia herself, putting on her hat, called Plato to her side, and started off for the village, resolved to make the church her first object of interest, in order to see the wondrous ‘Sarky.’

“I never was so much entertained in my life!” she declared to herself, as she walked lightly along,—­her huge dog bounding in front of her and anon returning to kiss her hand and announce by deep joyous barks his delight at finding himself at liberty in the open country—­“Spruce is a perfect comedy in herself,—­ever so much better than a stage play!  And then the quaint funny men who came to see me last night,—­and those village boys this morning!  And the ‘saintly’ parson!  I’m sure he’ll turn out to be comic too,—­in a way—­he’ll be the ‘heavy father’ of the piece!  Really I never imagined I should have so much fun!”