‘A little fiddle-faddle,’ retorted the father, not taking the trouble to lower his newspaper. ‘A deal of good you can do, going simpering and smirking into cottages, as much as to say, “Ain’t I pretty? How do you like my bonnet?” And then I suppose you inquire after the state of their souls, and ask why they don’t teach their children to blow their noses, and quote Scripture, and talk as if you’d got a freehold estate in heaven. I hate such humbug. Stay at home and help your mother. That’s what _I_ call Christianity.’ Like most men who never go to church or read their Bibles, Mr. Scratchell had his own idea of Christianity, and was quite as ready to assert and defend it as the most learned Churchman. He laid down the law as arrogantly upon this Christian code of his as if he had received a revelation all to himself, and was in a position to put the Established Church right, if it had been worth his while to do so. Bella Scratchell went on devoting three afternoons a week to parish visiting, in spite of paternal opposition. In fact, that paternal opposition gave a new zest to her work, and she felt herself in her small way a martyr. She told Cyril about her father’s unkindness one afternoon as he was walking home with her, after an accidental meeting in one of the cottages. ‘Papa is so cruel,’ she said; ‘he declares that I can do no good--that I am too insignificant and silly to be of the least use.’ ‘You are neither insignificant nor silly,’ answered Cyril, warmly; ‘and the people like you. That is the grand point. They will generally take advice from a person they like. And they like bright young faces, and pleasant friendly manners. You have done good already. I have seen it in more than one case.’ ‘I am so glad!’ cried Bella, in a voice that actually trembled with delight. ‘Are you really pleased with me?’ ‘I am very much pleased.’ ‘Then I will go on. Papa may be as unkind as he likes. I am amply rewarded.’ ‘My praise is a very small reward,’ replied Cyril, smiling. ‘The satisfaction of your own conscience is the real good. You know that your life now is all usefulness.’ Bella lived in a fool’s paradise, from this time forward. Mrs. Dulcimer was always telling her how Cyril had praised her. She met him continually in the cottages, or at the Vicarage. Her life was full of delight. She only went to the Water House once or twice a week, though she had hitherto gone almost every day. She told Beatrix about her district visiting. ‘Of course I like being here with you much better than going among those poor things,’ she said, affectionately; ‘but I felt it a duty to do something, my life seemed so useless.’ ‘What is mine, then?’ sighed Beatrix.