deeply at the way in which those once great organs of true British public feeling were becoming demoralised and perverted.  Had any reduction been made in the price of either of them, she would at once have stopped her subscription.  In the matter of politics she had long since come to think that every thing good was over.  She hated the name of Reform so much that she could not bring herself to believe in Mr Disraeli and his bill.  For many years she had believed in Lord Derby.  She would fain believe in him still if she could.  It was the great desire of her heart to have some one in whom she believed.  In the bishop of her diocese she did believe, and annually sent him some little comforting present from her own hand.  And in two or three of the clergymen around her she believed, finding in them a flavour of the unascetic godliness of ancient days which was gratifying to her palate.  But in politics there was hardly a name remaining to which she could fix her faith and declare that there should be her guide.  For awhile she, thought she would cling to Mr Lowe; but, when she made inquiry, she found that there was no base there of really well-formed conservative granite.  The three gentlemen who had dissevered themselves from Mr Disraeli when Mr Disraeli was passing his Reform bill, were doubtless very good in their way; but they were not big enough to fill her heart.  She tried to make herself happy with General Peel, but General Peel was after all no more than a shade to her.  But the untruth of others never made her untrue, and she still talked of the excellence of George III and the glories of the subsequent reign.  She had a bust of Lord Eldon before which she was accustomed to stand with hands closed and to weep or to think that she wept.

She was a little woman, now nearly sixty years of age, with bright grey eyes, and a strong Roman nose, and thin lips, and a sharp-cut chin.  She wore a head-gear that almost amounted to a mob-cap, and beneath it her grey hair was always frizzled with the greatest care.  Her dress was invariably of black silk, and she had five gowns:  one for church, one for evening parties, one for driving out, and one for evenings at home and one for mornings.  The dress, when new, always went to church.  Nothing, as she was wont to say, was too good for the Lord’s house.  In the days of crinolines she had protested that she had never worn one—­a protest, however, which was hardly true; and now, in these later days, her hatred was especially developed in reference to the head-dresses of young women.  ‘Chignon’ was a word which she had never been heard to pronounce.  She would talk of ’those bandboxes which the sluts wear behind their noddles;’ for Miss Stanbury allowed herself the use of much strong language.  She was very punctilious in all her habits, breakfasting ever at half-past eight, and dining always at six.  Half-past five had been her time, till the bishop, who, on an occasion, was to be her guest, once signified