s rare, and we should make very sure that it is from without
we hear the familiar voice, and not rush forth in haste when He may be
calling from within. Let us know that He is on the road before us, and
then we need have no fear to run fast, no doubt whither the road will
lead. There be some sheep in such haste to run that they must needs go
past the Shepherd; and then have they no longer a leader, and are very
like to miss the right way."

"You have the right, Lady Louvaine," said Mr Marshall. "`He that
believeth shall not make haste.' Yet there be sheep--to follow your
imagery, or truly that of our Lord--that will lag behind, and never keep
pace with the Shepherd."

"Ay," she answered: "and I know not if that be not the commoner fault of
the twain. He calls, and calls, and they come not; and such sheep find
many a sharp tap from the rod ere they will walk, never say run. Our
Shepherd is human, therefore He can feel for us; He is Divine, therefore
can He have patience with us. Let us thank God for both."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Except, only. This, now a Northern provincialism, is an
archaism at least as old as the fourteenth century.

Note 2. Nevertheless. This strictly Lancastrian provincialism is
supposed to be a corruption of "choose how." Its exact pronunciation
can hardly be put into English letters.

Note 3. This was a revival; for "persille" is found on the Rolls of
Edward II.

Note 4. This is the computation of Sir Edward Coke in his opening
speech at the trial of the Gunpowder conspirators.

Note 5. The little manuscript volume wherein this is inscribed, which
is in my own possession, consists of sermons--not very legible, and
mostly very dry by the Rev. Thomas Stone, their dates ranging from 1622
to 1666, with a few occasional memoranda interspersed.

CHAPTER FOUR.

WE GET INTO BAD COMPANY.

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the fly:
"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy."

One afternoon during that winter, as Lettice was coming down-stairs, her
sense of smell was all at once saluted by a strange odour, which did not
strike her as having any probable connection with Araby the blest, mixed
with slight curls of smoke suggestive of the idea that something was on
fire. But before she had done more than wonder what might be the
matter, a sound reached her from below, arguing equal a