hanks—now came to Rose and the other girl.

“Good-morrow, Gillian Mildmay! What’s wanting?”

“Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! My mother bade me ask if you had a fine marble cloth, about five shillings the ell, for a bettermost gown for her.”

Mrs Clere spoke a little less crossly, but with a weary air.

“Marbled cloth’s not so much worn as it was,” she said; “but I have a fair piece that may serve your turn. It’s more nor that, though. I couldn’t let it go under five and eightpence.”

“Mother’ll want it better cheap than that,” said Gillian. “I think that’ll not serve her, Mistress Clere. But I want a pair of tawny sleeves, an’t like you, wrought with needlework.”

Sleeves, at this time, were not a part of the dress, but were buttoned in as the wearer chose to have them. Gillian found these to suit her, paid for them, and went away. Mrs Clere turned to Rose.

“Now, then, do be hasteful, Rose Allen; I’m that weary!”

“You seem so in truth, Mistress Clere. I’m feared you’ve been overwrought,” said Rose, in a sympathising tone.

“Overwrought? Ay, body and soul too,” answered Mrs Clere, softening a little in response to Rose’s tone. “Well! folks know their own troubles best, I reckon, and it’s no good harrying other folks with them. What priced serge would you have?”

“About eighteenpence, have you some?”

“One and eightpence; and one and fourpence. The one-and-fourpenny’s right good, you’ll find.”

“Thank you, I’ll take the one-and-fourpenny: it’ll be quite good enough for me. Well, I was going to ask you a favour, Mistress Clere; but seeing you look so o’erwrought, I have no mind to it.”

“Oh, it’s all in the day’s work. What would you?” asked Mrs Clere, rather more graciously.

“Well, I scarce like to tell you; but I was meaning to ask you the kindness, if you’d give leave for Bessy Foulkes to pass next saint’s day afternoon with us. If you could spare her, at least.”

“I can spare Bessy Foulkes uncommon well!” said Mrs Clere irascibly.

“Why, Mistress Clere! Has Bessy—” Rose began in an astonished tone. Mrs Clere’s servant, Elizabeth Foulkes, was her dearest friend.

“You’d best give Mistress Elizabeth Foulkes the go by, Rose Allen. She’s a cantankerous, ill-beseen hussy, and no good company for you. She’ll learn you to do as ill as herself, if you look not out.”

“But what has Bessy done?”

“Gone into school-keeping,” said Mrs Clere sarcastically. “Expects her betters to go and learn their hornbook of her. Set herself up to tell all the world their duty, and knows it a sight better than they do. That’s what Mistress Elizabeth’s done and doing. Ungrateful hussy!”

“I couldn’t have thought it!” said Rose, in a tone of great surprise, mixed with disappointment. “Bessy’s always been so good a maid—”

“Good! don’t I tell you she’s better than every body else? Tell you what, Rose Allen, being good’s all very well, but for a young maid to stick herself up to be better than her neighbours ’ll never pay. I don’t hold with such doings. If Bess’d be content to be the best cook, or the best cleaner, in Colchester, I’d never say nought to her; but she’s not content; she’d fain be the best priest and the best school-master too. And that isn’t her work, preaching isn’t; dressing meat and scouring pans and making beds is what she’s called to, and not lecturing folks at Market Cross.”

“Has Bessy been preaching at the Market Cross?” asked Rose in genuine horror, for she took Mrs Clere’s statements literally.

“That’s not while to-morrow,” said Mrs Clere in the same sarcastic tone. “She’s giving the lecture at home first, to get perfect. I promise you I’m just harried out of my life, what with one thing and another!”

“Well, I’d like to speak with Bessy, if I might,” said Rose in some perplexity. “We’ve always been friends, Bessy and me; and maybe she’d listen to me—or, any ways, to Mother. Could you kindly give leave for her to come, Mistress Clere?”

“You may have her, and keep her, for all the good she is to me,” answered the clothier’s wife, moving away. “Mind she doesn’t give you the malady, Rose Allen: that’s all I say! It’s a fair infection going about, and the great doctors up to London ’ll have to come down and look to it—see if they don’t! Oh, my lady can go if it like her—she’s so grand now o’ days I’m very nigh afeared of her. Good-morrow!”

And Rose went out with her parcel, lost in wonder as to what could be the matter—first with Mistress Clere, and then with her friend Elizabeth.