Elizabeth was always fully employed on a Sunday, and on that which
followed the Consecration she had perhaps more on her hands even than
usual, so that she had little opportunity for speaking, or even for
thinking, of her troubles.
Mr. Woodbourne was going to assist Mr. Somerville in the services at
St. Austin's, leaving Mr. Walker to do the duty at St. Mary's, as the
old church was now to be always called.
Mr. Somerville had asked Mrs. Woodbourne to bring all her party to
luncheon at his house, and had added a special invitation to the
children to be present at the opening of the new Sunday-school, which
was to take place between the services. It was however necessary that
someone should stay and superintend what the young people called,
rather contemptuously, 'the old school;' and this Elizabeth undertook,
saying that she did not like to lose one Sunday's teaching of her own
class. Anne was about to offer to remain with her and assist her, but
on Helen's making the same proposal, she thought it better to give the
sisters an opportunity of being alone together, and, as she was more
desirous of doing right than of appearing eager to be useful, she said
nothing of what she had intended. Elizabeth was much gratified by her
sister's voluntary proffer of assistance, for the head and front of
Helen's offences on her return from Dykelands, had been, that she had
loathed the idea of helping to train the screaming school-girls to sing
in church, and had altogether shewn far less interest in parish matters
than Elizabeth thought their due.
'I am sure,' said Elizabeth, as they were walking from school to
church, 'it is worth while to stay to see the aisle now it is clear of
the benches, and there is breathing room left in the dear old church.
And listen to the bells! does not it seem as if the two churches were
exchanging greetings on St. Austin's first Sunday? Yes, St. Mary's is
our home, our mother church,' added she, as she walked under the heavy
stone porch, its groined roof rich with quaint bosses, the support of
many a swallow's nest, and came in sight of the huge old square font,
standing on one large column and four small ones, where she herself and
all her brothers and sisters had been christened.
The three little children were not to go to St. Austin's in the
morning, but Katherine had promised to come back to fetch them in time
for the luncheon at Mr. Somerville's, and thus Dora had the full
advantage of studying the Puddington monument before the service began.
Katherine and Harriet came back whilst Elizabeth and Helen were at
luncheon, and after giving them a list of half the people who were at
church, they called the children to come to Mr. Somerville's with them.
'Why do not you put on your bonnet, Dora?' said Winifred.
'I am not going,' said Dora.
'Why not?' asked Winifred.
'Because I had rather not,' was the answer.
'Why, you silly little child,' said Katherine; 'are you shy of Mr.
Somerville? look there, Edward and Winifred are not shy, and you are
quite a great girl. How Horace would laugh!'
'I cannot help it,' said Dora; 'I had rather not go.'
'If you are thinking of your little class, Dora,' said Elizabeth, 'I
will hear them for you; you will trust them with me, will you not? and
I will remember who is first.'
'Thank you,' said Dora; 'I had rather go to church and school with you.'
'Nonsense, Dora,' said Katherine; 'I wish you would come.'
'Now do,' said Harriet; 'you cannot think what a nice luncheon Mr.
Somerville will have for you.'
'There is a very nice luncheon here,' said Dora.
'Oh! but not like a company luncheon,' said Harriet; 'besides, Mr.
Somerville will be so disappointed if you do not come. Poor Mr.
Somerville, won't you be sorry for him, Dora?'
'Oh no, he does not want me--does he, Lizzie?' said Dora.
'No, I do not suppose he does,' said Elizabeth; 'he only asked you out
of good nature.'
'Well, if Dora will not come,' said Katherine, 'there is no use in
staying.--Come, Winifred and Edward.'
Elizabeth was sure that Dora had reasons of her own for choosing to
remain with her, but she thought it best to ask no questions; and the
reasons appeared, when, as they came into the Alms-house Court after
evening service, Dora pressed her hand, saying, in a low mysterious
tone, 'Lizzie, will you shew me what you promised?'
Elizabeth knew what she meant, and returning through the church into
the church-yard, led the way to the east end, where, close beside a
projecting buttress, Dora beheld a plain flat white stone, with three
small crosses engraven on it, and with a feeling between awe and
wonder, read the simple inscription.
KATHERINE,
WIFE OF THE REV. HORATIO WOODBOURNE,
VICAR OF ABBEYCHURCH ST. MARY'S,
MAY 14TH, 1826,
AGED 28.
It was the first time that Elizabeth and Helen had stood together at
their mother's grave, for Helen was but three years old at the time she
had been deprived of her, and, after their father's second marriage, a
kind of delicacy in Elizabeth, young as she was, had prevented her from
ever mentioning her to her younger sisters.
After a few minutes, during which no one spoke, the three sisters
turned away, and re-entered the church. Helen and Dora had reached the
north door, and were leaving the church, when they missed Elizabeth,
and looking round, saw her sitting in one of the low pews, in the
centre aisle, her face raised towards the flamboyant tracery of the
east window. Dora, who seemed to have a sort of perception that her
presence was a restraint upon her sisters, whispered, 'I am going to
feed the doves,' and hastened across the quadrangle, while Helen came
back to Elizabeth's side. Her sister rose, and with her own bright
smile, said, 'Helen, I could not help coming here, it was where I sat
at the day of the funeral, and I wanted to look at that flame-shaped
thing in the top of the window, as I did all through the reading of the
Lesson. Do you see? What strange thoughts were in my head, as I sat
looking at that deep blue glass, with its shape like an angel's head
and meeting wings, and heard of glories celestial! I never hear those
words without seeing that form.'
With these words Elizabeth and Helen left the church; Helen put her arm
into her sister's, a thing which Elizabeth very seldom liked anyone to
do, even Anne, but now the two girls walked slowly arm-in-arm, through
the quadrangle, and along the broad gravel path in the Vicarage garden.
'Then you were at her funeral?' was the first thing Helen said.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'Papa wished it, and I am sure I am very glad
they let me go.'
No more was spoken till Helen began again. 'When I was at Dykelands,
Mrs. Staunton used often to talk to me about our mother, and I began to
try to recollect her, but I had only an impression of something kind,
some voice I should know again, but I could not remember her in the
least.'
'Ah! I wish you could,' said Elizabeth thoughtfully.
'I suppose you remember her quite well,' said Helen, 'and all that
happened?'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'I remember some things as well as if they had
happened yesterday, and others are all confusion in my mind; I quite
remember going to kiss her, the last day, and how strange and silent
and sad all the room looked, and Aunt Anne keeping quite calm and
composed in the room, but beginning to cry as soon as she had led me
out. I shall never forget the awful mysterious feelings I had then.'
'And could she speak to you?' said Helen; 'did she know you?'
'Yes, she gave me one of her own smiles, and said something in a very
low voice.'
'Tell me a little more, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'for I have thought very
much about her lately. Can you remember her before she was ill?'
'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, speaking slowly, and pausing now and then; 'I
remember her well; I sometimes fancy I can hear her voice and her step
at night, when she used to come up to the nursery to see us in bed. I
always used to listen for her; and when she began to grow weak, and
could not come up so many stairs, I used to lie and cry for half an
hour. And now, when I am reading the same books with the children that
I read with her, things that she said to me come back upon me.'
'Do you think,' said Helen, 'that you are as like her as Uncle Edward
once said you were?'
Elizabeth paused; 'possibly,' said she, 'in eyes, nose, and mouth; but,
Helen, I do not think there ever could be anyone really like our
mother; I was much too young to know all that she was whilst she was
alive, but as I have grown older, and compared what I have seen of
other people with what I recollect of her, I have grown certain that
she must have been the most excellent, sensible, clever, kind, charming
person that ever lived.'
'So Mrs. Staunton says,' replied Helen; 'she used to tell me that I was
a good deal like her, and should be more so; but I do not think she
would have said so, if she had seen you. I am so slow and so dull, and
so unlike to you in your quick active ways.'
'Do you know, Helen,' said Elizabeth, who had been pursuing her own
thoughts, rather than listening to her sister's words, 'I do believe
that we should all have been more like her if she had lived; at least,
I am sure I should.'
Helen did not answer; and Elizabeth continued in her usual rapid
manner, 'I do not mean to lay all my faults at Mamma's door, for I
should have been much worse without her, and I have spurned away most
of the good she would have done me in her kind gentle way; but I do
believe no one but my own mother ever knew how to manage me. You never
were so wild, Helen, and you will do far far better.'
'O Lizzie, what do you mean?' cried Helen.
'I mean, my dear Helen,' exclaimed Elizabeth, hardly knowing what she
was saying, 'that I have been using you shamefully ever since you came
home. I have done nothing but contradict you, and snap at you, whether
right or wrong; and a pretty spectacle we must have made of ourselves.
Now I see that you have twice the sense and understanding that I have,
and are so unpretending as to be worth a hundred times more. I wish
with all my heart that I had taken your advice, and that the Mechanics'
Institute was at the bottom of the sea.'
Before Helen had recovered from her astonishment at this incoherent
speech, sufficiently to make any sort of reply, the rest of the party
were seen returning from St. Austin's, and Winifred and Edward hastened
towards the two sisters, to tell them all the wonders they had seen.
During the remainder of that day, a few words in her mother's feeble
voice rung in Elizabeth's ears more painfully even than the text she
had mentioned the day before. It was, 'Lizzie, I know you will be a
kind sister to Kate and poor little Helen.'
In the course of the evening, Lady Merton found Anne and Helen alone
together in the drawing-room. Helen was reclining on the sofa, in a
dreamy state, her book half closed in her hand, and Anne was sitting at
the window, reading as well as she could by the failing light.
'So you are alone here,' said Lady Merton, as she entered the room.
'Yes,' said Helen, starting up; 'I rather think the Hazlebys are
packing up--you know they go by the one o'clock train to-morrow--and I
believe Kate is helping them; and Mamma is hearing the little ones say
the Catechism.'
'So I thought,' said Lady Merton. 'I was surprised to find you here.'
'Oh!' said Helen, 'we generally say the Catechism to Papa every Sunday
evening, and he asks us questions about it; and we are to go on with
him till we are confirmed.'
'And when will that be?' said her aunt.
'Next spring,' said Helen; 'we shall all three of us be confirmed at
the same time. But if Mrs. Hazleby had not been here, Papa would have
heard us all down-stairs. I should have liked for you to hear how
perfect Edward is now, and how well Dora answers Papa's questions;
though perhaps before you she would be too shy.'
'And I should have been glad for Anne to have joined you,' said Lady
Merton; 'it is long since your godfather has heard you, Anne.'
'Not since we were here last,' said Anne, 'and that is almost two years
ago.'
'And where is Lizzie?' said Lady Merton; 'is she with your Mamma?'
'No,' said Helen, 'her other work is not over yet. On Sunday evening,
she always reads with four great girls who have left school, and have
no time to learn except on Sunday evenings. I am sure I cannot think
how she can; I should have thought morning and afternoon school quite
enough for anyone!' And she threw herself back on the sofa, and gave a
very long yawn.
Her aunt smiled as she answered, 'You certainly seem to find it so.'
'Indeed I do,' said Helen; 'I think teaching the most tiresome work in
the world.'
'O Helen, is it possible?' cried Anne.
'Helen is not much used to it,' said her aunt.
'No,' said Helen, 'there used to be teachers enough without me, but now
Lizzie wants me to take a class, I suppose I must, because it is my
duty; but really I do not think I can ever like it.'
'If you do it cheerfully because it is your duty, you will soon be
surprised to find yourself interested in it,' said her aunt.
'Now, Aunt Anne,' said Helen, sitting up, and looking rather more
alive, 'I really did take all the pains I could to-day, but I was never
more worried than with the dullness of those children. They could not
answer the simplest question.'
'Most poor children seem dull with a new teacher,' said Lady Merton;
'besides which, you perhaps did not use language which they could
understand.'
'Possibly,' said Helen languidly; 'but then there is another thing
which I dislike--I cannot bear to hear the most beautiful chapters in
the Bible stammered over as if the children had not the least
perception of their meaning.'
'Their not being able to read the chapter fluently is no proof that
they do not enter into it,' said Lady Merton; 'it often happens that
the best readers understand less than some awkward blunderers, who read
with reverence.'
'Then it is very vexatious,' said Helen.
'You will tell a different story next year,' said Lady Merton, 'when
you have learnt a little more of the ways of the poor children.'
'I hope so,' said Helen; 'but what I have seen to-day only makes me
wonder how Papa and Lizzie can get the children to make such beautiful
answers as they sometimes do in church.'
'And perhaps,' said Lady Merton, smiling, 'the person who taught Miss
Helen Woodbourne to repeat Gray's Elegy, would be inclined to wonder
how at fourteen she could have become a tolerably well-informed young
lady.'
'Oh, Aunt,' said Helen, 'have not you forgotten that day? How
dreadfully I must have tormented everybody! I am sure Mamma's patience
must have been wonderful.'
'And I am very glad that Lizzie saves her from so much of the labour of
teaching now,' said Lady Merton.
'I see what you mean,' said Helen; 'I ought to help too.'
'Indeed, my dear, I had no intention of saying so,' said Lady Merton;
'yourself and your mamma can be the only judges in such a matter.'
'I believe Mamma does think that Lizzie has almost too much to do,'
said Helen; 'but there has been less since Horace has been at school.'
'But Edward is fast growing up to take his place,' said her aunt.
'Edward will never take Horace's place,' said Helen; 'he will be five
times the trouble. Horace could learn whatever he pleased in an
instant, and the only drawback with him was inattention; but Edward is
so slow and so dawdling, that his lessons are the plague of the
school-room. His reading is tiresome enough, and what Lizzie will do
with his Latin I cannot think; but that can be only her concern. And
Winifred is sharp enough, but she never pays attention three minutes
together; I could not undertake her, I should do her harm and myself
too.'
'I am rather of your opinion, so far,' said Lady Merton; 'but you have
said nothing against Dora.'
'Dora!' said Helen; 'yes, she has always been tolerably good, but she
knows nearly as much as I do. Lizzie says she knows the reasons of a
multiplication sum, and I am sure I do not.'
'Perhaps you might learn by studying with her,' aaid Lady Merton.
'Yes, Lizzie says she has learnt a great deal from teaching the
children,' said Helen; 'but then she had a better foundation than most
people. You know she used to do her lessons with Papa, and he always
made her learn everything quite perfect, and took care she should
really understand each step she took, so that she knows more about
grammar and arithmetic, and all the latitude and longitude puzzling
part of geography than I do--a great deal more.'
'I am sorry to find there is some objection to all the lessons of all
the children,' said Lady Merton.
'I suppose I might help in some,' said Helen; 'but then I have very
little time; I have to draw, and to practise, and to read French and
Italian and history to Mamma, and to write exercises; but then Mamma
has not always leisure to hear me, and it is very unsatisfactory to go
on learning all alone. At Dykelands there were Fanny and Jane.'
'I should not have thought a person with four sisters need complain of
having to learn alone,' said her aunt.
'No more should I,' said Helen; 'but if you were here always, you would
see how it is; Lizzie is always busy with the children, and learns her
German and Latin no one knows when or how, by getting up early, and
reading while she is dressing, or while the children are learning. She
picks up knowledge as nobody else can; and Kate will only practise or
read to Mamma, and she is so desultory and unsettled, that I cannot go
on with her as I used before I went to Dykelands; and Dora--I see I
ought to take to her, but I am afraid to do so--I do not like it.'
'So it appears,' said Lady Merton.
'I should think it the most delightful thing!' cried Anne.
'You two are instances of the way in which people wish for the
advantages they have not, and undervalue those they have,' said Lady
Merton, smiling.
'Advantages!' repeated Helen.
'Why, do not you think it an advantage to have sisters?' said Anne; 'I
wish you would give some of them to me if you do not.'
'Indeed,' said Helen warmly, 'I do value my sisters very much; I am
sure I am very fond of them.'
'As long as they give you no trouble,' said Lady Merton.
'Well,' said Helen, 'I see you may well think me a very poor selfish
creature, but I really do mean to try to improve. I will offer to
undertake Dora's music; Lizzie does not understand that, and it is
often troublesome to Mamma to find time to hear her practise, and I
think I should pay more attention to it than Kate does sometimes. I
think Dora will play very well, and I should like her to play duets
with me.'
'I am glad you can endure one of your sisters,' said Anne, laughing
rather maliciously.
'Pray say no more of that, Anne,' said Helen; 'it was only my foolish
indolence that made me make such a speech.'
As Helen finished speaking, Elizabeth came into the room, looking
rather weary, but very blithe. 'I have been having a most delightful
talk about the Consecration with the girls,' said she, 'hearing what
they saw, and what they thought of it. Mary Watson took her master's
children up the hill to see the church-yard consecrated, and the eldest
little boy--that fine black-eyed fellow, you know, Helen--said he never
could play at ball there again, now the Bishop had read the prayers
there. I do really hope that girl will be of great use to those little
things; her mistress says no girl ever kept them in such good order
before.'
'I was going to compliment you on the good behaviour of your children
at St. Austin's, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton; 'I thought I never saw a
more well conducted party.'
'Ah! some of our best children are gone to St. Austin's,' said
Elizabeth; 'I quite grudge them to Mr. Somerville; I hate the girls to
get out of my sight.'
'So do I,' said Anne, 'I am quite angry when our girls go out to
service, they _will_ get such horrid places--public houses, or at best
farm houses, where they have a whole train of babies to look after, and
never go to church.'
'And very few of the most respectable fathers and mothers care where
their children go to service,' said Elizabeth; 'I am sure I often wish
the children had no parents.'
'In order that they may learn a child's first duty?' said Lady Merton.
'Well, but is it not vexatious, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth, 'when there
is a nice little girl learning very well in school, but forgetting as
soon as she is out of it, her mother will not put herself one inch out
of the way to keep her there regularly; when the child goes to church
continually, the mother never comes at all, or never kneels down when
she is there. If you miss her at school on the Sunday morning, her
mother has sent her to the shop, and perhaps told her to tell a
falsehood about it; if her hand is clammy with lollipops, or there is a
perfume of peppermint all round her, or down clatters a halfpenny in
the middle of church, it is all her father's fault.'
'Oh! except the clatter, that last disaster never happens with us,'
said Anne; 'the shop is not open on Sunday.'
'Ah! that is because Uncle Edward is happily the king of the parish,'
said Elizabeth; 'it has the proper Church and State government, like
Dante's notion of the Empire. But you cannot help the rest; and we are
still worse off, and how can we expect the children to turn out well
with such home treatment?'
'No, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton; 'you must not expect them to turn out
well.'
'O Mamma! Mamma!' cried Anne.
'What do you teach them for?' exclaimed Helen.
'I see what you mean,' said Elizabeth; 'we can only cast our bread upon
the waters; we must look to the work, and not to the present
appearance. But, Aunt Anne, the worst is, if they go wrong, I must be
afraid it is my fault; that it is from some slip in my teaching, some
want of accordance between my example and my precept, and no one can
say that it is not so.'
'No one on earth,' said her aunt solemnly; 'and far better it is for
you, that you should teach in fear.'
'I sometimes fancy,' said Elizabeth, 'that the girls would do better if
we had the whole government of them, but I know that is but fancy; they
are each in the place and among the temptations which will do them most
good. But oh! it is a melancholy thing to remember that of the girls
whom I myself have watched through the school and out into the world,
there are but two on whom I can think with perfect satisfaction.'
'Taking a high standard, of course?' said Lady Merton.
'Oh yes, and not reckoning many who I hope will do well, like this one
of whom I was talking, but who have had no trial,' said Elizabeth;
'there are many very good ones now, if they will but keep so. One of
these girls that I was telling you of, has shewn that she had right
principle and firmness, by her behaviour towards a bad fellow-servant;
she is at Miss Maynard's.'
'And where is the other?' asked Anne.
'In her grave,' said Elizabeth.
'Ah!' said Helen, 'I missed her to-day, in the midst of her little
class, bending over them as she used to do, and looking in their faces,
as if she saw the words come out of their mouths.'
'Do you mean the deaf girl with the speaking eyes?' said Anne; 'you
wrote to tell me you had lost her.'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'she it was whose example shewed me that an
infirmity may be a blessing. Her ear was shut to the noises of the
world, the strife of tongues, and as her mother said, "she did not know
what a bad word was," only it was tuned to holy things. She always
knew what was going on in church, and by her eager attention learnt to
do everything in school; and when her deafness was increased by her
fever, and she could not hear her mother's and sisters' voices, she
could follow the prayers Papa read, the delirium fled away from them.
Oh! it is a blessing and a privilege to have been near such a girl; but
then--though the last thing she said was to desire her sisters to be
good girls and keep to their church and school--she would have been the
same, have had the same mind, without our teaching--our mere
school-keeping, I mean. Aunt Anne, you say you have kept school in
your village for thirty years; you were just in my situation, the
clergyman's daughter; so do tell me what effect your teaching has had
as regards the children of your first set of girls. Are they better
managed at home than their mothers?'
'More civilized and better kept at school, otherwise much the same,'
said Lady Merton. 'Yes, my experience is much the same as yours;
comparatively few of those I have watched from their childhood have
done thoroughly well, and their good conduct has been chiefly owing to
their parents. Some have improved and returned to do right, perhaps
partly in consequence of their early teaching.'
'Sad work, sad work, after all!' said Elizabeth, as she left the room
to finish hearing the little ones, and release Mrs. Woodbourne.
'And yet,' said Helen, as the door closed, 'no one is so happy at
school as Lizzie, or delights more in the children, or in devising
pleasure for them.'
'I never shall understand Lizzie,' said Anne, with a kind of sigh; 'who
would have suspected her of such desponding feelings? and I cannot
believe it is so bad an affair. How can it be, taking those dear
little things fresh from their baptism, training them with holy things
almost always before them, their minds not dissipated by all kinds of
other learning, like ours.'
'I do not know that that is quite the best thing, though in a degree it
is unavoidable,' said her mother.
'So I was thinking,' said Helen; 'I think it must make religious
knowledge like a mere lesson; I know that is what Lizzie dreads, and
they begin the Bible before they can read it well.'
'But can it, can it really be so melancholy? will all those
bright-faced creatures, who look so earnest and learn so well, will
they turn their backs upon all that is right, all they know so well?'
said poor Anne, almost ready to cry. 'O Mamma, do not tell me to think
so.'
'No, no, you need not, my dear,' said Lady Merton; 'it would be
grievous and sinful indeed to say any such things of baptized
Christians, trained up by the Church. The more you love them, and the
more you hope for them, the better. You will learn how to hope and how
to fear as you grow older.'
'But I have had as much experience as Lizzie,' said Anne; 'I am but a
month younger, and school has been my Sunday delight ever since I can
remember; Mamma, I think the Abbeychurch people must be very bad--you
see they keep shop on Sunday; but then you spoke of our own people. It
must have been my own careless levity that has prevented me from
feeling like Lizzie; but I cannot believe--'
'You have not been the director of the school for the last few years,
as Lizzie has,' said Lady Merton; 'the girls under your own protection
are younger, their trial is hardly begun.'
'I am afraid I shall be disheartened whenever I think of them,' said
Anne; 'I wish you had not said all this--and yet--perhaps--if
disappointment is really to come, I had better be prepared for it.'
'Yes, you may find this conversation useful, Anne,' said Lady Merton;
'if it is only to shew you why I have always tried to teach you
self-control in your love of the school.'
'I know I want self-control when I let myself be so engrossed in it as
to neglect other things,' said Anne; 'and I hope I do manage now not to
shew more favour to the girls I like best, than to the others; but in
what other way do you mean, Mamma?'
'I mean that you must learn not to set your heart upon individual
girls, or plans which seem satisfactory at first,' said Lady Merton;
'disappointment will surely be sent in some form or other, to try your
faith and love; and if you do not learn to fear now that your hopes are
high, you will hardly have spirit enough left to persevere cheerfully
when failure has taught you to mistrust yourself.'
'I know that I must be disappointed if I build upon schemes or
exertions of my own,' said Anne; 'but I should be very conceited--very
presumptuous, I mean--to do so, and I hope I never shall.'
'I cannot think how you, or anybody who thinks like you, can ever
undertake to keep school,' said Helen; 'I never saw how awful a thing
it is, before; not merely hearing lessons, and punishing naughty
children, I am sure I dread it now; I would have nothing to do with it
if Papa did not wish it, and so make it my duty.'
'Nobody would teach the children at all if they thought like you,
Helen,' said Anne; 'and then what would become of them?'
'People who are not fit often do teach them, and is not that worse than
nothing?' said Helen; 'I should think irreverence and false doctrine
worse than ignorance.'
'Certainly,' said Lady Merton; 'and happy it is, that, as in your case,
Helen, the duty of obedience, or some other equally plain, teaches us
when to take responsibility upon ourselves and when to shrink from it.'
'I must say,' said Anne, 'I cannot recover from hearing Mamma and
Lizzie talk of their "little victims," just in Gray's tone.'
'No,' said Lady Merton; 'I only say,
"If thou wouldst reap in love,
First sow in holy fear."'