As I passed along the street, wondering with myself what relations between me and these houses were hidden in the future, my eye was caught by the window of a little shop, in which strings of beads and elephants of gingerbread formed the chief samples of the goods within.  It was a window much broader than it was high, divided into lozenge-shaped panes.  Wondering what kind of old woman presided over the treasures in this cave of Aladdin, I thought to make a first of my visits by going in and buying something.  But I hesitated, because I could not think of anything I was in want of—­at least that the old woman was likely to have.  To be sure I wanted a copy of Bengel’s “Gnomon;” but she was not likely to have that.  I wanted the fourth plate in the third volume of Law’s “Behmen;” she was not likely to have that either.  I did not care for gingerbread; and I had no little girl to take home beads to.

But why should I not go in without an ostensible errand?  For this reason:  there are dissenters everywhere, and I could not tell but I might be going into the shop of a dissenter.  Now, though, I confess, nothing would have pleased me better than that all the dissenters should return to their old home in the Church, I could not endure the suspicion of laying myself out to entice them back by canvassing or using any personal influence.  Whether they returned or not, however, (and I did not expect many would,) I hoped still, some day, to stand towards every one of them in the relation of the parson of the parish, that is, one of whom each might feel certain that he was ready to serve him or her at any hour when he might be wanted to render a service.  In the meantime, I could not help hesitating.

I had almost made up my mind to ask if she had a small pocket compass, for I had seen such things in little country shops—­I am afraid only in France, though—­when the door opened, and out came the little boy whom I had already seen twice, and who was therefore one of my oldest friends in the place.  He came across the road to me, took me by the hand, and said—­

“Come and see mother.”

“Where, my dear?” I asked.

“In the shop there,” he answered.

“Is it your mother’s shop?”

“Yes.”

I said no more, but accompanied him.  Of course my expectation of seeing an old woman behind the counter had vanished, but I was not in the least prepared for the kind of woman I did see.

The place was half a shop and half a kitchen.  A yard or so of counter stretched inwards from the door, just as a hint to those who might be intrusively inclined.  Beyond this, by the chimney-corner, sat the mother, who rose as we entered.  She was certainly one—­I do not say of the most beautiful, but, until I have time to explain further—­of the most remarkable women I had ever seen.  Her face was absolutely white—­no, pale cream-colour—­except her lips and a spot upon each cheek, which glowed