on it; but now, alas lit was deserted.  Even the omnibuses from the railway-station never came there unless they were ordered to call at Mrs Winterfield’s door.  For Mrs Winterfield herself, this desolation had, I think, a certain melancholy attraction.  It suited her tone of mind and her religious views that she should be thus daily reminded that things of this world were passing away and going to destruction.  She liked to have ocular proof that grass was growing in the highways under mortal feet, and that it was no longer worth man’s while to renew human flags in human streets.  She was drawing near to the pavements which would ever be trodden by myriads of bright sandals, and which yet would never be worn, and would be carried to those jewelled causeways on which no weed could find a spot for its useless growth.

Behind the house there was a square prim garden, arranged in parallelograms, tree answering to tree at every corner, round which it was still her delight to creep when the weather permitted.  Poor Clara!  How much advice she had received during these creepings, and how often had she listened to inquiries as to the schooling of the gardener’s children.  Mrs Winterfield was always unhappy about her gardener.  Serious footmen are very plentiful, and even coachmen are to be found who, at a certain rate of extra payment, will be punctual at prayer time, and will promise to read good little books; but gardeners, as a class, are a profane people, who think themselves entitled to claim liberty of conscience, and who will not submit to the domestic despotism of a serious Sunday.  They live in cottages by themselves, and choose to have an opinion of their own on church matters.  Mrs Winterfield was aware that she ought to bid high for such a gardener as she wanted.  A man must be paid well who will submit to daily inquiries as to the spiritual welfare of himself, his wife, and family.  But even though she did bid high, and though she paid generously, no gardener would stop with her.  One conscientious man attempted to bargain for freedom from religion during the six unimportant days of the week, being strong, and willing therefore to give up his day of rest; but such liberty could not be allowed to him, and he also went.  ’He couldn’t stop,’ he said, ’in justice to the greenhouses, when missus was so constant down upon him about his sprittual backsliding.  And after all, where did he backslide?  It was only a pipe of tobacco with the babby in his arms, instead of that darned evening lecture.’

Poor Mrs Winterfield!  She had been strong in her youth, and had herself sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which other people cannot attain.  And she was strong too in her age, with the strength of a martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesses which are insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit.  The sermons of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, nor encouraging.  All the old vicar or the young curate could tell she