of her money; and in the second, she had—as she fondly believed—purchased an article worth one-and-tenpence for eighteenpence.

As she came up to the last stile she had to pass, Friswith saw two girls sitting on it—the elder a slender, delicate-looking girl of some fourteen years, the younger a sturdy, little, rosy-faced damsel of seven. They looked up on hearing steps, and the elder quitted her seat to leave Friswith room to pass.

“Good-morrow, Pen! So you’ve got Patience there?”

“I haven’t much, I’m afraid,” said Pen, laughing. “I came out here because the lads made such a noise I could scarce hear myself speak; and I wanted to teach Patience her hymn. Charity knows hers; but Patience learns slower.”

“Are they with you, then—both?”

“For a few days. Mistress Bradbridge is gone to visit her brother at Chelmsford, so she left her little maids with Mother.”

“What a company must you be! How can you ever squeeze into the house?”

“Oh, folks can squeeze into small corners when they choose,” said Penuel Pardue, with a smile. “A very little corner will hold both Charity and Patience.”

“Then you haven’t much of either,” answered Friswith satirically. “Look you here, Pen!”

And unrolling her ribbon, she displayed its crimson beauties.

“What’s that for?”

“For my hat! You can tell Beatrice, if you like, she won’t be the best-dressed maid at church next Sunday.”

“I should never suppose she would,” was the quiet reply.

“Oh, I saw her blue ribbons! But I’ll be as grand as she, you’ll see now. Mother sent me to buy her a coif, and I got this for the money too. Don’t you wish you were me?”

“No, Friswith, I don’t think I do,” said Penuel gravely.

“That’s because you think Mother will scold. I’ll stand up to her if she do. She’s always bidding us stand up to folks, and I’ll see how she likes it herself a bit!”

With which very dutiful speech, Friswith took her departure.

Penuel looked after her for a moment, and then, with a shake of her head which meant more than words, turned back to Patience and the hymn.

“Now, little Patience, try to learn the next verse. I will say it over to thee.

“‘And in the presence of my foes
    My table Thou shalt spread;
Thou shalt, O Lord, fill full my cup,
    And eke anoint my head.’”

“Who be my foes, Pen?” said Patience.

“Folks that tease and trouble thee, my child.”

“Oh!” responded Patience, instantly making a practical application. “Toby and Silas, that is. But they didn’t see you spread the table, Pen. They were out playing on the green.”

Penuel tried to “improve” this very literal rendering of the Psalm, but found it impossible to advance further than the awakening in Patience’s mind an expectation of a future, but equally literal table, the dainties on which Toby and Silas would not be privileged to share.

“I won’t give them the lessest bit, ’cause they’re my foes,” said Patience stubbornly. “You shall have some, Pen, and so shall Beatie—and Abbafull, if he’s good. He tied my shoe.”

“Aphabell, not Abbafull,” corrected Penuel. “But, Patience, that won’t serve: you’ve got to forgive your enemies.”

“They shan’t have one bit!” announced Patience, putting her hands behind her back, as if to emphasise her statement. “Pen, what does ‘anoint my head’ mean?”

“Pour oil on it,” said Penuel.

“I won’t have oil on my head! I’ll pour it on Silas and Toby. It’ll run down and dirt their clothes, and then Mother Pardue’ll thwack ’em.”

“Patience, Patience! Little maids mustn’t want to have people thwacked.”

“I may want my foes thwacked, and I will!” replied Patience sturdily.

“Look at the people coming up the road,” answered Penuel, thinking it well to make a diversion. “Why, there’s Master Benden and his mistress, and Mistress Hall, and ever so many more. What’s ado, I marvel?”

About a dozen persons comprised the approaching group, which was brought up by a choice assortment of small boys, among whom Penuel’s brothers, Esdras and Silvanus, were conspicuous. Mr Benden walked foremost, holding his wife by her wrist, as if he were afraid of her running away; whilst she went with him as quietly as if she had no such intention. Almost in a line with them was Tabitha Hall, and she was pouring out a torrent of words.

“And you’ll rue it, Edward Benden, you take my word for it! You savage barbarian, to deal thus with a decent woman that never shamed you nor gave you an ill word! Lack-a-day, but I thank all the saints on my bended knees I’m not your wife! I’d—”

“So do I, Mistress!” was Mr Benden’s grim answer.

“I’d make your life a burden to you, if I were! I’d learn you to ill-use a woman! I’d give it you, you white-livered dotipole (cowardly simpleton) of a Pharisee! Never since the world began—”

“Go to!” shrieked the boys behind, in great glee. “Scratch him, Tabby, do!”

Alice never uttered a word, either to her husband or her sister-in-law. She heard it all as though she heard not. Catching the eye of her brother Esdras, Penuel beckoned to him, and that promising youth somewhat reluctantly left the interesting group, and shambled up to his eldest sister at the stile.

“Esdras, what is all this? Do tell me.”

“’Tis Master Benden, a-carrying of his mistress afore the Justices, and Mistress Hall’s a-showing him the good love she bears him for it.”

“Afore the Justices! Mistress Benden! Dear saints, but wherefore?”

“Oh, I wis nought of the inwards thereof,” said Esdras, pulling a switch from the hedge. “Some saith one thing, and some another. But they saith she’ll go to prison, safe sure.”

“Oh, Esdras, I am sorry!” said Penuel, in a tone of great distress. “Mother will be sore troubled. Everybody loves Mistress Benden, and few loveth her master. There’s some sorry blunder, be thou sure.”

“Very like,” said Esdras, turning to run off after the disappearing company.

“Esdras,” said little Patience suddenly, “you’ve got a big hole in you.”

“Oh, let be! my gear’s alway in holes,” was the careless answer. “It’ll hold together till I get back, I reckon. Here goes!”

And away went Esdras, with two enormous holes in his stockings, and a long strip of his jacket flying behind him like a tail.

“Oh dear, this world!” sighed Penuel. “I’m afraid ’tis a bad place. Come, little Patience, let us go home.”

When the girls reached Mrs Pardue’s cottage, they found there the mother of Patience, Mrs Bradbridge. She sat talking earnestly to Mrs Pardue, who was busy washing, and said little in answer beyond such replies, compatible with business, as “Ay,” “I reckon so,” or “To be sure!”

“Mother!” said Penuel, as she led Patience in, “have you heard of this matter of Mistress Benden’s?”

“Nay, child,” replied Collet, stopping in the process of hanging up a skirt to dry. “Why, whatso? Naught ill, I do hope and trust, to Mistress Benden. I’d nigh as soon have aught hap evil to one of my own as her.”

“Eh, neighbour, ’tis all a body need look for,” sighed poor Widow Bradbridge, lifting Patience on her knee. “This world’s naught save trouble and sorrow—never was sin’ the Flood, more especially for women.”

“She’s had up to the Justices, Mother, but I couldn’t hear for why; and her own husband is he that taketh her.”

“He’ll get his demerits, be sure,” said Mrs Bradbridge.

“Well, and I wouldn’t so much mind if he did,” was Mrs Pardue’s energetic comment. “He never was fit to black her shoes, he wasn’t. Alice Benden afore the Justices! why, I’d as