“Ah, here is Mr. Walton!” said the old lady, in a serene voice, with a clear hardness in its tone; and I held out my hand to aid her descent. She had pulled off her glove to get a card out of her card-case, and so put the tips of two old fingers, worn very smooth, as if polished with feeling what things were like, upon the palm of my hand. I then offered my hand to her companion, a girl apparently about fourteen, who took a hearty hold of it, and jumped down beside her with a smile. As I followed them into the house, I took their card from the housekeeper’s hand, and read, Mrs Oldcastle and Miss Gladwyn. I confess here to my reader, that these are not really the names I read on the card. I made these up this minute. But the names of the persons of humble position in my story are their real names. And my reason for making the difference will be plain enough. You can never find out my friend Old Rogers; you might find out the people who called on me in their carriage with the ancient white horses. When they were seated in the drawing-room, I said to the old lady— “I remember seeing you in church on Sunday morning. It is very kind of you to call so soon.” “You will always see me in church,” she returned, with a stiff bow, and an expansion of deadness on her face, which I interpreted into an assertion of dignity, resulting from the implied possibility that I might have passed her over in my congregation, or might have forgotten her after not passing her over. “Except when you have a headache, grannie,” said Miss Gladwyn, with an arch look first at her grandmother, and then at me. “Grannie has bad headaches sometimes.” The deadness melted a little from Mrs Oldcastle’s face, as she turned with half a smile to her grandchild, and said— “Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interesting fact to Mr. Walton.” “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Oldcastle,” I said. “A clergyman ought to know something, and the more the better, of the troubles of his flock. Sympathy is one of the first demands he ought to be able to meet—I know what a headache is.” The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned; this time unaccompanied by a bow. “I trust, Mr. Walton, I TRUST I am above any morbid necessity for sympathy. But, as you say, amongst the poor of your flock,—it IS very desirable that a clergyman should be able to sympathise.” “It’s quite true what grannie says, Mr. Walton, though you mightn’t think it. When she has a headache, she shuts herself up in her own room, and doesn’t even let me come near her—nobody but Sarah; and how she can prefer her to me, I’m sure I don’t know.” And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle in her bright gray eye. “The subject is not interesting to me, Pet. Pray, Mr. Walton, is it a point of conscience with you to wear the surplice when you preach?” “Not in the least,” I answered. “I think I like it rather better on the whole. But that’s not why I wear it.”