“Doubtless,” I answered; and thought it better to try another direction.

“How is Mrs Oldcastle?” I asked, feeling in its turn the reproach of hypocrisy; for though I could have suffered, I hope, in my person and goods and reputation, to make that woman other than she was, I could not say that I cared one atom whether she was in health or not.  Possibly I should have preferred the latter member of the alternative; for the suffering of the lower nature is as a fire that drives the higher nature upwards.  So I felt rather hypocritical when I asked Miss Oldcastle after her.

“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, in a tone of indifference, which implied either that she saw through me, or shared in my indifference.  I could not tell which.

“And how is Miss Judy?” I inquired.

“A little savage, as usual.”

“Not the worse for her wetting, I hope.”

“Oh! dear no.  There never was health to equal that child’s.  It belongs to her savage nature.”

“I wish some of us were more of savages, then,” I returned; for I saw signs of exhaustion in her eyes which moved my sympathy.

“You don’t mean me, Mr Walton, I hope.  For if you do, I assure you your interest is quite thrown away.  Uncle will tell you I am as strong as an elephant.”

But here came a slight elevation of her person; and a shadow at the same moment passed over her face.  I saw that she felt she ought not to have allowed herself to become the subject of conversation.

Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his benches filing away at a piece of brass fixed in the vice.  He had thick gloves on.  And, indeed, it had puzzled me before to think how he could have so many kinds of work, and yet keep his hands so smooth and white as they were.  I could not help thinking the results could hardly be of the most useful description if they were all accomplished without some loss of whiteness and smoothness in the process.  Even the feet that keep the garments clean must be washed themselves in the end.

When I glanced away from Miss Oldcastle in the embarrassment produced by the repulsion of her last manner, I saw Judy in the room.  At the same moment Miss Oldcastle rose.

“What is the matter, Judy?” she said.

“Grannie wants you,” said Judy.

Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy turned to me.  “How do you do, Mr Walton?” she said.

“Quite well, thank you, Judy,” I answered.  “Your uncle admits you to his workshop, then?”

“Yes, indeed.  He would feel rather dull, sometimes, without me.  Wouldn’t you, Uncle Stoddart?”

“Just as the horses in the field would feel dull without the gad-fly, Judy,” said Mr Stoddart, laughing.

Judy, however, did not choose to receive the laugh as a scholium explanatory of the remark, and was gone in a moment, leaving Mr Stoddart and myself alone.  I must say he looked a little troubled at the precipitate retreat of the damsel; but he recovered himself with a smile, and said to me,