her in amazement, and then they laughed. [Illustration: “‘HERE IS MARY SETTING UP TO HAVE AN OPINION’” (_p. 35_).] “Why, here is a Daniel come to judgment,” cried Sophie, and “Here is Mary setting up to have an opinion,” said Anna. It was the most amusing thing that had happened for a long time. “Well, why shouldn’t Mary have an opinion?” said her uncle, “and about the curate, too, which is a subject young ladies are always supposed to understand.” “Mary must not trouble her head about curates,” said Mrs. Prescott. “She is a great deal too young for any nonsense of that kind.” “Fancy calling Mr. Asquith nonsense!” cried both the girls again, with a burst of laughter. They were not in the least interested, so that Mary’s interference only amused them. If she had made herself the champion of a more eligible visitor, Sophie and Anna might not perhaps have taken it nearly so well. “He doesn’t look stupid, and there is no nonsense about him, and I think he is very nice,” said Mary, but she was at that moment putting away her work, and spoke very low, almost to herself, and nobody paid any attention. She felt, however, a little excited at having thus, as it were, taken up her position and declared her sentiments. She felt like the champion of an injured but noble man--the defender of the unfortunate. This gives a sense of generosity, of fine elation to the mind. It seemed to Mary as if she were herself less insignificant in being thus the champion of another. And it gave her an interest in Mr. Asquith, which was entirely disinterested, but yet was akin, perhaps, to a sentiment more warm, of which as yet Mary had never thought even in her most romantic dreams. And by-and-by it came to pass that these two met not unfrequently upon the roads, and sometimes in the cottages where Mary was often a visitor. She went there sometimes on charitable errands, and sometimes from mere kindness and liking for the good people, whom she had known all her life. The charity was not Mary’s charity, it need hardly be said, for she had nothing of her own to give. Mrs. Prescott was not rich nor very interesting, nor a woman who talked much on any subject, especially upon that of the poor and their claims: but she had a kind heart. When there was a very nice pudding at luncheon, she almost always remembered that poor Sally Williams, who was in “a deep decline,” and had no appetite, might be tempted by a bit of it, or if the chicken was very tender, she felt sure that old John Price, who had lost his teeth, or Mrs. Sims at the almshouses, would like it. “I will just put this nice little piece in a dish, and you will run down to the village with it, Mary,” she would say, “as soon as you have finished, my dear.” “But why should Mary go?” some one remarked, at least three days out of five. “She never has time to finish her luncheon,” said Mr. Prescott, who loved a good meal.