ot make haste; indeed, I'll send Joyce instead. Go,
Joyce, at once. Say we are having a hay-making party, and end with a
supper when the last wain is carried; which, I'll be bound, she will
call sinful."

Joyce had to free herself from the wisps of hay which clung to her, and
to smooth her tangled curls. They were confined by combs and pins, but
all had fallen out in the scrimmage in the hay, and they now fell on
either side of her flushed face. Perhaps she had never looked more
lovely than at that moment when, turning to her father, she said:

"Do you really wish me to go like this, dear dad?"

"My dear, some one must go; and at once. Mrs. More is not a person to
keep waiting."

Joyce did not delay a moment, but went with her quick, light step across
the field, and then through a little gate which opened into a belt of
low-growing shrubs, beyond which was the carriage-road from the village.

An old-fashioned _barouche_--old-fashioned even in those days--stood
before the door, and sitting in it were two ladies; the elder one
upright and alert, the younger leaning back as if to resign herself to
the long waiting time, before any of the family appeared.

Although comparatively near neighbours in the county, Joyce never
remembered to have seen Mrs. More before. Her name was familiar enough,
and her schools, established on all sides, were known by every one,
though it cannot be said they were approved by every one.

Mrs. More and her sister had in times past made some overtures towards
Mrs. Falconer, but they were coldly repulsed, and a parcel of tracts had
even been returned. Later there had been the disagreement about the
dairy-maid, and the time for Mrs. Hannah More to carry the crusade into
the enemy's camp was over. She had, in the year 1824, nearly numbered
her four-score years; and the loss of her sisters, and repeated attacks
of illness, made her more willing to rest from her labours, only taking
care that the good seed sown in the days of health and vigour, should be
watered and cared for, that it might yield a good harvest.

It had happened that several times during the lovely spring of this year
she had met Joyce Falconer driving in the high gig with her father, or
trotting by his side on the rough pony, the use of which she shared with
all her young brothers. The sweet, frank face had attracted her, and she
had inquired about Joyce when on a visit of ceremony at the Palace at
Wells a few weeks before.