it was true, but her interpretation of it was of the strangest kind.
Almost all our great doctrines seemed shrunk to nothing in her eyes,
while others, which were nothing to us, were all-important to her.
The atonement, for instance, I never heard her mention, but
Unitarianism was hateful to her, and Jesus was her God in every sense
of the word. On the other hand, she was partly Pagan, for she knew
very little of that consideration for the feeble, and even for the
foolish, which is the glory of Christianity. She was rude to foolish
people, and she instinctively kept out of the way of all disease and
weakness, so that in this respect she was far below the commonplace
tradesman's wife, who visited the sick, sat up with them, and, in
fact, never seemed so completely in her element as when she could be
with anybody who was ill in bed.

Miss Leroy's father was republican, and so was my grandfather. My
grandfather and old Leroy were the only people in our town who
refused to illuminate when a victory was gained over the French.
Leroy's windows were spared on the ground that he was not a Briton,
but the mob endeavoured to show my grandfather the folly of his
belief in democracy by smashing every pane of glass in front of his
house with stones. This drew him and Leroy together, and the result
was, that although Leroy himself never set foot inside any chapel or
church, Miss Leroy was often induced to attend our meeting-house in
company with a maiden aunt of mine, who rather "took to her." Now
comes the for ever mysterious passage in history. There was amongst
the attendants at that meeting-house a young man who was apprentice
to a miller. He was a big, soft, quiet, plump-faced, awkward youth,
very good, but nothing more. He wore on Sunday a complete suit of
light pepper-and-salt clothes, and continued to wear pepper-and-salt
on Sunday all his life. He taught in the Sunday-school, and