as well, perhaps better!” And she said these flattering words from the very summit of her splendid eyes.
“There are people here in Annis who are wanting bread and – ”
“It is their own fault, mother, and you know it. The Annis weavers are a lot of stubborn old fogies.”
“They have only taken this world as they found it. Isn’t that right?”
“No. It is all wrong. Every generation ought to make it better. You said that to father last night, I heard you.”
“I doan’t always talk to thy father as I do to thee. It wouldn’t be a bit suitable. Whatever were thou talking to Captain Chandos for – if he is a captain – I doubt it.”
“His uncle bought him a commission in The Scotch Greys. His mother is Scotch. I suppose he has as much right there, as the rest of the Hanover fools.”
“And if thou are going to indulge thyself in describing people in the army and the court thou wilt get thy father into trouble.”
“I saw father talking to Squire Bradley for a long time this morning.”
“In what mood? I hope they were not – quarreling.”
“They were disputing rather earnestly, father looked troubled, and so did Bradley.”
“They were talking of the perishing poor and the dreadful state of. England no doubt. It’s enough to trouble anybody, I’m sure of that.”
“So it is, but then father has a bad way of making things look worse than they are. And he isn’t friendly with Bradley now. That seems wrong, mother, after being friends all their live-long lives.”
“It is wrong. It is a bit of silent treason to each other. It is that! And how did thou happen to see them talking this morning?”
“They met on the village green. I think Bradley spoke first.”
“I’ll warrant it. Bradley is varry good-natured, and he thought a deal o’ thy father. How did thou happen to be on the green so early in the day?”
“I was sitting with Faith Foster, and her parlor window faces the Green.”
“Faith Foster! And pray what took thee to her house?”
“I was helping her to sew for a lot of Annis babies that are nearly naked, and perishing with cold.”
“That was a varry queer thing for thee to do.”
“I thought so myself even while I was doing it – but Faith works as she likes with everyone. You can’t say ‘No’ to anything she wants.”
“Such nonsense! I’m fairly astonished at thee.”
“Have you ever seen Faith, mother?”
“Not I! It is none o’ my place to visit a Methodist preacher’s daughter.”
“Everybody visits her – rich and poor. If you once meet her she can bring you back to her as often as she wishes.”
“Such women are very dangerous people to know. I’d give her a wide border. Keep thyself to thyself.”
“I am going to London. Maybe, mother, I ought to tell you that our Dick is in love with Faith Foster. I am sure he is. I do not see how he can help it.”
“Dick and his father will hev that matter to settle, and there is enough on hand at present – what with mills, and steam, and working men, not to speak of rebellion, and hunger, and sore poverty. Dick’s love affairs can wait awhile. He hes been in love with one and twenty perfect beauties already. Some of them were suitable fine girls, of good family, and Lucy Todd and Amy Schofield hed a bit of money of their awn. Father and I would hev been satisfied with either o’ them, but Dick shied off from both and went silly about that French governess that was teaching the Saville girls.”
“I do not think Dick will shy off from Faith Foster. I am sure that he has never yet dared to say a word of love to her.”
“Dared! What nonsense! Dick wasn’t born in Yorkshire to take a dare from any man or woman living.”
“Well, mother, I have made you wise about Faith Foster. A word is all you want.”
“I the girl pretty?”
“Pretty She is adorable.”
“You mean that she is a fine looking girl?”
“I mean that she is a little angel. You think of violets if she comes where you are. Her presence is above a charm and every door flies open to her. She is very small. Mary Saville, speaking after her French governess, calls her petite. She is, however, beautifully fashioned and has heavenly blue, deep eyes.”
“Tell me nothing more about her. I should never get along with such a daughter-in-law. How could thou imagine it?”
“Now, mother, I have told you all my news, what have you to say to me about London?”
“I will speak to thy father some time to-day. I shall hev to choose both a proper way and a proper time; thou knows that. Get thy frocks ready and I will see what can be done.”
“If father will not take me, I shall write to Aunt Josepha.”
“Thou will do nothing of that kind. Thy Aunt Josepha is a very peculiar woman. We heard from the Wilsons that she hed fairly joined the radicals and was heart and soul with the Cobden set. In her rough, broad way she said to Mrs. Wilson, that steam and iron and red brick had come to take possession of England and that men and women who could not see that were blind fools and that a pinch of hunger would do them good. She even scolded father in her letter two weeks ago, and father her eldest brother. Think of that! I was shocked, and father felt it far more than I can tell thee. Why!– he wouldn’t hev a mouthful of lunch, and that day we were heving hare soup; and him so fond of hare soup.”
“I remember. Did father answer that letter?”
“I should think he did. He told Josepha Temple a little of her duty; he reminded her, in clear strong words, that he stood in the place of her father, and the head of the Annis family, and that he had a right to her respect and sympathy.”
“What did Aunt Josepha say to that?”
“She wrote a laughable, foolish letter back and said: ‘As she was two years older than Antony Annis she could not frame her mouth to ‘father’ him, but that she was, and always would be, his loving sister.’ You see Josepha Temple was the eldest child of the late squire, your father came two years after her.”
“Did you know that Dick had been staying with her for a week?”
“Yes. Dick wrote us while there. Father is troubled about it. He says Dick will come home with a factory on his brain.”
“You must stand by Dick, mother. We are getting so pinched for money you know, and Lydia Wilson told me that everyone was saying: ‘Father was paying the men’s shortage out of his estate.’ They were sorry for father, and I don’t like people being sorry for him.”
“And pray what has Lydia Wilson to do with thy father’s money and business? Thou
