the babby in his arms, instead of that darned evening lecture.'

Poor Mrs Winterfield! She had been strong in her youth, and had herself
sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which other people cannot
attain. And she was strong too in her age, with the strength of a
martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesses which are
insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit. The sermons
of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, nor encouraging. All the
old vicar or the young curate could tell she had heard hundreds of
times. She knew it all by heart, and could have preached their sermons
to them better than they could preach them to her. It was impossible
that she could learn anything from them: and yet she would sit there
thrice a day, suffering from cold in winter, from cough in spring, from
heat in summer, and from rheumatism in autumn; and now that her doctor
had forbidden her to go more than twice, recommending her to go only
once, she really thought that she regarded the prohibition as a
grievance. Indeed, to such as her, that expectation of the jewelled
causeway, and of the perfect pavement that shall never be worn, must be
everything. But if she was right right as to herself and others then
why has the world been made so pleasant? Why is the fruit of the earth
so sweet; and the trees why are they so green; and the mountains so
full of glory? Why are women so lovely? and why is it that the activity
of man's mind is the only sure forerunner of man's progress? In
Listening thrice a day to outpourings from the clergyman at Perivale
there certainly was no activity of mind.

Now, in these days, Mrs Winterfield was near to her reward. That she
had ensured that I cannot doubt. She had fed the poor, and filled the
young full with religious teachings perhaps not wisely, and in her own
way only too well, but yet as her judgment had directed her. She had