t had I not appeared as a providential outlet for
them. Her accent is not of the farm, but of the town, and smacks wholly
of the marts of trade. She is repetitious, too, as well as
platitudinous. "I 'ope if there's anythink you require you will let us
know, let us know," she says several times each day; and whenever she
enters my sitting-room she prefaces her conversation with the remark: "I
trust you are finding it quiet here, miss? It's the quietude of the
plyce that is its charm, yes, the quietude. And yet" (she dribbles on)
"it wears on a body after a while, miss. I often go into Woodmucket to
visit one of my sons just for the noise, simply for the noise, miss, for
nothink else in the world but the noise. There's nothink like noise for
soothing nerves that is worn threadbare with the quietude, miss, or at
least that's my experience; and yet to a strynger the quietude of the
plyce is its charm, undoubtedly its chief charm; and that is what our
paying guests always say, although our charges are somewhat higher than
other plyces. If there's anythink you require, miss, I 'ope you'll
mention it. There is not a commodious assortment in Barbury Green, but
we can always send the pony to Woodmucket in case of urgency. Our paying
guest last summer was a Mrs. Pollock, and she was by way of having sudden
fancies. Young and unmarried though you are, miss, I think you will tyke
my meaning without my speaking plyner? Well, at six o'clock of a rainy
afternoon, she was seized with an unaccountable desire for vegetable
marrows, and Mr. 'Eaven put the pony in the cart and went to Woodmucket
for them, which is a great advantage to be so near a town and yet 'ave
the quietude."

{Mr. Heaven: p11.jpg}

Mr. Heaven is merged, like Mr. Jellyby, in the more shining qualities of
his wife. A line of description is too long for him. Indeed, I can
think of no single word brief enough, at least in English. The Latin
"nil" will do, since no language is rich in words of less than three
letters. He is nice, kind, bald, timid, thin, and so colourless that he
can scarcely be discerned save in a strong light. When Mrs. Heaven goes
out into the orchard in search of him, I can hardly help calling from my
window, "Bear a trifle to the right, Mrs. Heaven--now to the left--just
in front of you now--if you put out your hands you will touch him."

Phoebe, aged seventeen, is the daughter of the house. She is virtuous,
industrious, conscienti