Mrs. Thornburgh, however, could not apply herself to the case of
Mary Backhouse. At any other moment it would have excited in her
breast the shuddering interest, which, owing to certain peculiar
attendant circumstances, it, awakened in every other woman in Long
Whindale. But her mind--such are the limitations of even clergymen's
wives--was now absorbed by her own misfortune. Her very cap-strings
seemed to hang limp with depression, as she followed Sarah dejectedly
into the kitchen, and gave what attention she could to, those
second-best arrangements so depressing to the idealist temper.

Poor soul! All the charm and glitter of her little social adventure
was gone. When she once more emerged upon the lawn, and languidly
readjusted her spectacles, she was weighed down by the thought that
in two hours Mrs. Seaton would be upon her. Nothing of this kind
ever happened to Mrs. Seaton. The universe obeyed her nod. No
carrier conveying goods to her august door ever got drunk or failed
to deliver his consignment. The thing was inconceivable. Mrs.
Thornburgh was well aware of it.

Should William be informed? Mrs. Thornburgh had a rooted belief
in the brutality of husbands in all domestic crises, and would have
preferred not to inform him. But she had also a dismal certainty
that the secret would burn a hole in her till it was confessed-bill
and all. Besides--frightful thought!--would they have to eat up
all those _meringues_ next day?

Her reflections at last became so depressing that, with a natural
epicurean instinct, she tried violently to turn her mind away from
them. Luckily she was assisted by a sudden perception of the roof
and chimneys of Burwood, the Leyburns' house, peeping above the