and his knapsack would be obliged to run away."

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the
manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings.
She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injury
to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria
was trying to suppress shewed how well it was understood;
and before Julia could command herself enough to speak,
her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying,
"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the
best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy,
I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy
about her. She has not the look of it. Her features
are not tragic features, and she walks too quick,
and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance.
She had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife;
you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's wife is a very pretty part,
I assure you. The old lady relieves the high-flown
benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit.
You shall be Cottager's wife."

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you
talking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part;
the merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole.
Your sister do that! It is an insult to propose it.
At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it.
We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else.
A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please.
You do not deserve the office, if you cannot appreciate