the ‘ounds, stickin’ to the saddle wonderful for ’er size an’ time o’ life, an’ Miss Barbara, she doos a lot o’ sick visitin’, an’ Bible readin’, not ‘ere, for our people won’t stand it, an’ Passon Walden ain’t great on breakin’ into private ’ouses without owners’ consents for Bible readin’, but she, she’s ‘Igh, an’ tramps into Riversford near every day which the carrier’s cart brings ’er ’ome to ’er own place they ‘avin’ given up a kerridge owin’ to spekylation in railways, an’ Miss Hagnes she works lovely with ’er needle, an’ makes altar cloths an’ vestis for Mr. Francis Anthony, the ‘Igh Church clergyman at Riversford, he not bein’ married, though myself I should say there worn’t no chance for ‘er, bein’ frightful skinny an’ a bit off in ‘er looks—­an’ Miss Christina she do still play at bein’ a baby like, she’s the youngest, an’ over forty, yet quite a giddy in ‘er way, wearin’ ribbins round her waist, an’ if ’twarn’t for ‘er cheeks droppin’ in long like, she wouldn’t look so bad, but they’re all that proud—­”

“That’ll do, Spruce, that’ll do!” cried Maryllia, putting her hands to her ears—­“No more Ittlethwaites, please, for the present!  Sufficient for the day is the Magnum Chartus thereof!  Who comes here?” and she read from another card,—­“‘Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby.’  Also a smaller label which says, ‘Mr. Mordaunt Appleby’!  More county family pride or what?”

“Oh lor’ no, Miss, Mordaunt Appleby’s only the brewer of Riversford,” said Mrs. Spruce, casually.  “He’s got the biggest ’ouse in the town, but people remembers ’im when he was a very shabby lot indeed,-an awful shabby lot.  He ain’t nobody, Miss-he’s just got a bit o’ money which makes the commoner sort wag tails for ’im, but it’s like his cheek to call ‘ere at all.  Sir Morton Pippitt, bein’ in. the bone-meltin’ line, as ‘im up to dine now an’ agin, just to keep in with ‘im like, for he’s a nasty temper, an’ his wife’s got the longest and spitefullest tongue in all the neighbourhood.  But you needn’t take up wi’ them, Miss-they ain’t in your line,-which some brewers is gentlemen, an’ Appleby ain’t—­your Pa wouldn’t never know his Pa.”

“Then that’s settled!” said Maryllia, with a sigh of relief.  “Depart, Mordaunt Applebys into the limbo of forgotten callers!"-and she tossed the cards aside-"Here are the Pippitt names,-I small remember them all right-Pip-pitt and Ittlethwaite have a tendency to raise blisters of memory on the brain.  What is this neat looking little bit of pasteboard-’ The Rev. John Walden.’  Yes!-he called two or three days ago when I was out.”

Mrs. Spruce sniffed a sniff of meaning, but said nothing.

“I’ve not been to church yet"-went on Maryllia medi-tatively.  “I dare say he thinks me quite a dreadful person.  But I hate going to church,-it’s so stupid-so boresome-and oh!-such a waste of time!”

Mrs. Spruce still held her peace.  Maryllia gave her a little side-glance and noted a certain wistfulness and wonder in the rosy, wrinkled face which was not without its own pathos.