e feline assistance of Mrs. Arbroath, who came readily to
her husband's aid in his capacity of "downing" a woman, especially as
that woman was so much better-looking than herself, nothing of any
importance was accomplished in the way of either shaking Mary's
established position in the estimation of Weircombe, or of persuading
the parishioners to a "'Igh Jink" view of religious matters. Indeed, on
this point they were inflexible, and as Mrs. Twitt remarked on one
occasion, with a pious rolling-up of the whites of her eyes--

"To see that little black man with the 'igh stomach a-walkin' about this
village is enough to turn a baby's bottle sour! It don't seem nat'ral
like--he's as different from our good old parson as a rat is from a
bird, an' you'll own, Mis' Deane, as there's a mighty difference between
they two sorts of insecks. An' that minds me, on the Saturday night
afore they got the play-actin' on up in the Church, the wick o' my
candle guttered down in a windin' sheet as long as long, an' I sez to
Twitt--'There you are! Our own parson's gone an' died over in Madery,
an' we'll never 'ave the likes of 'im no more! There's trouble comin'
for the Church, you mark my words.' An' Twitt, 'e says, 'G'arn, old
'ooman, it's the draught blowin' in at the door as makes the candle
gutter,'--but all the same my words 'as come true!"

"Why no, surely not!" said Mary, "Our parson isn't dead in Madeira at
all! The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterday
saying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again with
us very soon."

Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head.

"That may be!" she observed--"I aint a-sayin' nuthin' again it. I sez to
Twitt, there's trouble comin' for the Church, an' so there is. An' the
windin' sheet in the candle means a death for somebody somewhere!"

Mary laughed, though her eyes were a little sad and wistful.

"Well, of course, there's always somebody dying somewhere, they say!"
And she sighed. "There's a good deal of grief in the world that nobody
ever sees or hears of."

"True enough, Mis' Deane!--true enough!" And Mrs. Twitt shook her head
again--"But ye're spared a deal o' worrit, seein' ye 'aven't a husband
nor childer to drive ye silly. When I 'ad my three boys at 'ome I never
know'd whether I was on my 'ed or my 'eels, they kept up such a racket
an' torment, but the Lord be thanked they're all out an' doin' for
theirselves in the world now--forbye the