‘And that is true,’ said the Presbyterian parson to Wentworth. ‘They say I am a Unitarian; but the orthodox certainly are much nearer to me than they were. It did them good to hear damnation dealt out to others who did not think as they did. God the Father, Christ the Elder Brother, were little in their thoughts. It was God the Angry Judge, it was Christ saying, “Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting torment,” of whom it did them good to hear. They quite relished the torments—the endless torments of the lost. Not to dwell on them in a sermon was not to preach the Gospel. Hard, stern, unforgiving were these ladies of the Dorcas. It is to be hoped that their charities at Christmas-time to the poor of the meeting, in the shape of flannel and other garments, did good. Charity covers a multitude of sins, and if they talked scandal, why, do not others do the same? A sister with more brains than the rest, and of equal piety, does now and then make a sensible remark. But at any rate, my wife said she would never go to one of their meetings again.’ ‘I have heard of it,’ said Wentworth; ‘but I have never attended one.’ ‘Be thankful you have not.’ ‘Why, I thought, in my ignorance, they were gatherings of benevolent ladies, to work for benevolent ends!’ ‘Ah, that is what they pretend to be, but things are not what they seem. Believe me, Mr. Wentworth, that the Dorcas as it is conducted in country towns is a mockery, a delusion and a snare.’ Wentworth shook his head and groaned. ‘Yes, that is so; my wife went to one, as I have said. It was her first attendance and her last. The professed object was work for the poor, the real one scandal. The women talked of all the other women in the town; how this one went on when her husband was away; how forward was one young miss, and how sly another; how mean was this man, how extravagant that. There was a good deal more talking than working, and the over-righteous were the worst of all, and the most uncharitable. Never was there a more unpleasant display of feminine littleness. But, bless me, I am gossiping myself, when I came here on a very pressing occasion. And now, after this preliminary remark, let us proceed to business. It is one which you can help most materially.’ ‘Pray proceed,’ again remarked Wentworth. ‘It is one that requires a good deal of thinking about.’ ‘So much the better. I always love to have a nut to crack.’ ‘We have an old woman in Sloville Workhouse who says there is an heir to the Strahan estates.’ ‘I know it,’ said Wentworth. ‘Well, this old woman has told her story all over the town, and everyone believes it.’ ‘But why did she not tell her story before?’