finish the closing chapters of George Eliot's last new novel, since
her return from church. Aye, it is true. She had been a listener in
the same sanctuary where the earnest charge had rung, "Take heed what
ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you." At least Mrs. Matthews
had taken her handsomely clothed little body to church; I will not
say that her mind was there, or that she had heard much of the
sermon. Some of it, however, she undoubtedly _had_ heard, and she
proved it at this point, breaking in upon Dr. Matthews' musings as he
stirred his second cup of coffee:

"Dr. Matthews, how do you like being preached at?"

"Preached at?" the doctor echoed, with a sleepy air.

"Yes, preached at. I'm sure, if you were not asleep this morning, you
must have heard yourself all but called by name. Who else could Dr.
Selmser have been hinting at when he burst forth with such a tirade
on whist parties? It isn't a week since we had ours, and he almost
described what we had for supper."

"Fudge!" said Dr. Matthews. He was occasionally more apt to be
expressive than elegant in his expressions. "What do you suppose he
knows about our party? There were a dozen, I dare say, that very
evening, and as many more the next evening. They are common enough, I
am sure. And he didn't say anything personal, nor anything very bad,
anyhow. They all take that position--have to, I suppose; it's a part
of their business. _I_ don't like them any the less for it. I
wouldn't listen to a preacher who played whist."

Mrs. Matthews set her pretty lips in a most determined way, and