’To-morrow’s Monday, Mrs Stout Says she must put the washing out. Why can’t she save my scanty tin And try and keep the washing in? The next day’s Tuesday, what a pest. Why can’t the devil let me rest?’ ’That will do,’ said Aunt Amelia, and rang the bell for her maid. ’Take the child away, and perhaps you could teach her a hymn, Keziah.’ ’Yes, my lady,’ said Keziah. Then I tried to tell my aunt a little about my journey. ’I was so ill,’ I said, ’the sea was simply awful.’ ’Don’t say "awful," Margaret, there’s nothing awful but being in hell.’ I felt the conversation languishing. I asked if there was any news. It seemed safer to let my Aunt do all the talking, besides ’my prickles’ were _all_ out. ’I suppose,’ she said, ’you’ve heard about your cousin, Eustace?’ ’No,’ I replied. ’Aunt Constance said she was in trouble, but she couldn’t tell me why just then. What is it?’ ’I expect she’s ashamed,’ said Aunt Amelia acidly. It’s all her fault. Your Uncle Jasper knows the truth, at least he ought to,’ but as I could not hear a word against those two beloveds, I said again,— ’Tell me about Eustace.’ ’Monastery,’ she said. ’Monks got hold of him and he has finally decided. I’m sorry for your uncle; there’ll be no heir now, but it serves him right. He knows the truth and hasn’t followed it. I look upon it as a judgment on him. Your aunt’s persuaded him to let the new vicar—"priest," she calls him—put flowers in your father’s old church. Candles will come next, of course; it’s only the thin end of the wedge. And then your Aunt Constance talks about "union," but does she think that I would ever unite with people who have flowers and candles?’ ’But,’ I put in, ’father always said you needn’t unite about the flowers and candles, but just in your mutual love of God.’ ’Your father was always too charitable, but he’s "one of the right sort," and I don’t know what he’ll say when he gets my last letter.’ I thought to myself he’ll say, ’What a pearl you are, Amelia,’ or else he’ll lose his temper. Darling daddy! He’d die for the faith that is in him, but he regards his Lord’s ’Judge not’ as a command, consequently it is really rather pleasant to live with him. ’I think,’ I remarked, getting up, ’I must go now,’ so she rang for the Gidger. ’Well, and have you learned a hymn, child?’ ’She’s learnt four lines, m’lady,’ said Keziah. ’She isn’t very quick. Say them, miss.’ So the Gidger folded two small hands, shut her eyes in accordance with instructions in a way that set my teeth on edge, and chanted,— ’Go bury thy sorrow, The world hath its share. Go bury it deeply, Go hide it with care.’ But anything less like a person with a sorrow that needed burial was the radiant Gidger when she opened her eyes. ’Very nice,’ said Aunt Amelia, ’very suitable to these solemn times.’ ’Yes, m’lady,’ said Keziah.