nd
Martin alternately read a succession of sermons--John Wesley's
"Sermons." John Wesley, being a reformer and an agitator, had a place
both in her own and her husband's favour.

"Rose will do as she pleases," said Martin, not looking up from the book
which, according to his custom then and in after-life, he was studying
over his bread and milk.

"Rose will do as she is told, and Martin too," observed the mother.

"I am going to church."

So her son replied, with the ineffable quietude of a true Yorke, who
knows his will and means to have it, and who, if pushed to the wall,
will let himself be crushed to death, provided no way of escape can be
found, but will never capitulate.

"It is not fit weather," said the father.

No answer. The youth read studiously; he slowly broke his bread and
sipped his milk.

"Martin hates to go to church, but he hates still more to obey," said
Mrs. Yorke.

"I suppose I am influenced by pure perverseness?"

"Yes, you are."

"Mother, _I am not_."

"By what, then, are you influenced?"

"By a complication of motives, the intricacies of which I should as soon
think of explaining to you as I should of turning myself inside out to
exhibit the internal machinery of my frame."

"Hear Martin! hear him!" cried Mr. Yorke. "I must see and have this lad
of mine brought up to the bar. Nature meant him to live by his tongue.
Hesther, your third son must certainly be a lawyer; he has the
stock-in-trade--brass, self-conceit, and words--words--words."

"Some bread, Rose, if you please," requested Martin, with intense
gravity, serenity, phlegm. The boy had naturally a low, plaintive voice,
which in his "dour moods" rose scarcely above a lady's whisper. The more
inflexibly stubborn the humour, the softer, the sadder the tone. He
rang the bell, and gently asked for his walking-shoes.

"But, Martin," urged his sire, "there is drift all the way; a man could
hardly wade through it. However, lad," he continued, seeing that the boy
rose as the church bell began to toll, "this is a case wherein I would
by no means balk the obdurate chap of his will. Go to church by all
means. There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet, besides the
depth under foot. Go out into it, since thou prefers it to a warm
fireside."

Martin quietly assumed his cloak, comforter, and cap, and deliberately
went out.

"My father has more sense than my mother," he pronounced. "How women
miss it! They drive the nail i