y builders, beyond which a conglomerate
of factories, with chimneys ever belching heavy fumes, closes the view;
its rear windows regard a scrubby meadow, grazed generally by
broken-down horses, with again a limitary prospect of vast mills.

Imagine a Sunday in this house. Half an hour later than on profane
days, Mrs. Elgar descends the stairs. She is a lady of middle age,
slight, not ungraceful, handsome; the look of pain about her forehead
is partly habitual, but the consciousness of Sunday intensifies it. She
moves without a sound. Entering the breakfast-room, she finds there two
children, a girl and a boy, both attired in new-seeming garments which
are obviously stiff and uncomfortable. The little girl sits on an
uneasy chair, her white-stockinged legs dangling, on her lap a large
copy of "Pilgrim's Progress;" the boy is half reclined on a shiny sofa,
his hands in his pockets, on his face an expression of discontent. The
table is very white, very cold, very uninviting.

Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, shaven, also in
garments that appear now and uncomfortable, glancing hither and thither
with preoccupied eyes. There is some talk in a low voice between the
little girl and her mother; then the family seat themselves at table
silently. Mr. Elgar turns a displeased look on the boy, and says
something in a harsh voice which causes the youngster to straighten
himself, curl his lip precociously, and thereafter preserve a
countenance of rebellion subdued by fear. His father eats very little,
speaks scarcely at all, but thinks, thinks-and most assuredly not of
sacred subjects.

Breakfast over, there follows an hour of indescribable dreariness,
until the neighbourhood begins to sound with the clanging of religious
bells. Mr. Elgar has withdrawn to a little room of his own, where
perhaps, he gives himself up to meditation on the duties of a Christian
parent, though his incredulous son has ere now had a glimpse at the
door, and observed him in the attitude of letter-writing. Mrs. Elgar
moves about silently, the pain on her brow deepening as chapel-time
approaches. At length the boy and girl go upstairs to be "got ready,"
which means that they indue other garments yet more uncomfortable than
those they already wear. This process over, they descend again to the
breakfast-room, and again sit there, waiting for the dread moment of
departure. The boy is more rebellious than usual; he presently drums
with his fee