"I wis not, Orige, how Gertrude gat her degree, nor her father afore her," answered Rachel: "but this I will tell thee--that if one of the `beggarly craftsmen' that Jack loveth to snort at, should allow him, before me, in such talk as I have heard of her, I would call on Sim to put him forth with no more ado. Take my word for it, she cometh of no old nor honourable stock, but is of low degree in very truth, if the truth were known." Rachel's instinct was right. Lady Gertrude's father was a _parvenu_, of very mean extraction. Her great-uncle had made the family fortune, partly in trade, but mostly by petty peculations; and her father, who had attracted the Queen's eye when a young lawyer, had been rapidly promoted through the minor grades of nobility, until he had reached his present standing. Gertrude was not noble in respect of anything but her title. Lady Enville, with a smile which was half amusement and half contempt, rose and retired to her boudoir. Sir Thomas and Rachel sat still by the hall fire, both deeply meditating: the former with his head thrown back, gazing--without seeing them--at the shields painted on the ceiling; while the latter leaned forward towards the fire, resting her chin on both hands. "What saidst, Tom?" asked Rachel in a dreamy voice. "I spake not to know it, good Sister: but have what I said, an' thou so wilt. I was thinking on that word of Paul--`Not many noble are called.' I thought, Rachel, how far it were better to be amongst the called of God, than to be of the noble." "'Tis not the first, time that I have thanked the Lord I am not noble," said Rachel without changing her attitude. "'Tis some comfort to know me not so high up that any shall be like to take thought to cut my head off. And if Gertrude be noble--not to say"--Rachel's voice died away. "Tom," she said in a moment later, "we have made some blunders in our lives, thou and I." "I have, dear Rachel," said Sir Thomas sighing: "what thine may be I wis not." "God knoweth!" she replied in a low voice. "And I know of one--the grandest of all blunders. Thou settedst out for Heaven these few months gone, Tom. May be thou shalt find more company on the road than thou wert looking for." "Dear Rachel!" "Clare must be metely well on by this time," she continued in the dry tone with which she often veiled her deepest feelings, "and Blanche is tripping in at the gate, or I mistake. I would not by my goodwill have thee lonely in the road, Tom: and I suppose--there shall be room for more than two a-breast, no' will?" [Will there not?] ------------------------------------------------------------------------