clung to the chapel rather by force of habit than from any other
reason. The only exception was an old maiden lady and her sister, who
lived in a little cottage about a mile out of the town. They were
pious in the purest sense of the word, suffering much from ill-health,
but perfectly resigned, and with a kind of tempered cheerfulness always
apparent on their faces, like the cheerfulness of a white sky with a
sun veiled by light and lofty clouds. They were the daughters of a
carriage-builder, who had left them a small annuity.

Their house was one of the sweetest which I ever entered. The moment I
found myself inside it, I became conscious of perfect repose.
Everything was at rest; books, pictures, furniture, all breathed the
same peace. Nothing in the house was new, but everything had been
preserved with such care that nothing looked old. Yet the owners were
not what is called old-maidish; that is to say, they were not
superstitious worshippers of order and neatness.

I remember Mrs. Snale's children coming in one afternoon when I was
there. They were rough and ill-mannered, and left traces of dirty
footmarks all over the carpet, which the two ladies noticed at once.
But it made no difference to the treatment of the children, who had
some cake and currant wine given to them, and were sent away rejoicing.
Directly they had gone, the elder of my friends asked me if I would
excuse her; she would gather up the dirt before it was trodden about.
So she brought a dust-pan and brush (the little servant was out) and
patiently swept the floor. That was the way with them. Did any
mischief befall them or those whom they knew, without blaming anybody,
they immediately and noiselessly set about repairing it with that
silent promptitude of nature which rebels not against a wound, but the
very next instant begins her work of protection and recovery.