Mrs. Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he saw
visions and talked with angels like the rest of that 'rubbitch.'

I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecture
for charging my father with supernatural pretensions; and in all points
when her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyal
housekeeper.

I found her one morning superintending preparations for the reception of
a visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from the pieces of tapestry
that covered its walls, representing scenes _à la Wouvermans_, of falconry,
and the chase, dogs, hawks, ladies, gallants, and pages. In the midst of
whom Mrs. Rusk, in black silk, was rummaging drawers, counting linen, and
issuing orders.

'Who is coming, Mrs. Rusk?'

Well, she only knew his name. It was a Mr. Bryerly. My papa expected him to
dinner, and to stay for some days.

'I guess he's one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his name just
to Dr. Clay (the rector), and he says there _is_ a Doctor Bryerly, a great
conjurer among the Swedenborg sect--and that's him, I do suppose.'

In my hazy notions of these sectaries there was mingled a suspicion of
necromancy, and a weird freemasonry, that inspired something of awe and
antipathy.

Mr. Bryerly arrived time enough to dress at his leisure, before dinner. He
entered the drawing-room--a tall, lean man, all in ungainly black, with a