decent man, for all his
slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him
down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my
wit to see."

"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates
every thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir
_Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying
next."

"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin
_Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not
meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have
put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves
out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured
beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis
a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_
so as an other man. I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but,
poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that
the priest must needs bear, and such like. And `Mistress _Meade_,' says
I, `I'll tell you what it is,' says I: `you are none grounded well in
_Hebrews_,' says I. `Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord
isn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she
looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not
a bit less. And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do you
mean?' says she. `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what I
mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our
Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And if
so,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of
no sort, priests or no,' says I. `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she,
`you must have lost your wits.' `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but I
don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."

_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to
see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.

"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.

"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me,
though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for
Dr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such
like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear!
they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them afo