"On the contrary," replied Flora, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, though the birds that twittered on the branches above them were the only living creatures near--"poor John was never anything but a trial to mamma. He behaved very ill to her indeed, at the time when poor dear papa’s affairs were settled; he wrote in so insolent a manner; he cost my precious mother such bitter tears when she had been already suffering so much, that no one but an angel, as she is, would ever have forgotten or forgiven his conduct. You do not know how I felt it," continued Flora, her colour rising at the recollection; "I could have better borne unkindness to myself, but insolence to my widowed mother was not to be endured! Yet, no sooner did we hear that John had died, leaving his family poorly provided for, than the heart and home of my mother were opened at once; no feeling was left in her bosom but generous sympathy and compassion; and I believe that she will receive the widow as warmly and tenderly as if she were her own cherished child." "That _is_ Christianity!" exclaimed Ada. "Ah! if profession and practice thus always went hand in hand--if ’good people,’ as they are called, were always really good, they would win a great deal more respect from the world than they do now, and have a great deal more influence in it besides! But what I can’t bear is, when people talk as though they believed themselves to be saints and all the rest of the world sinners, and look as though they thought it wicked to smile or raise their voice above a whisper; and when you come really to know them, when you can glance a little behind the curtain, they are as selfish, and avaricious, and mean, and spiteful, as the veriest worldling in creation! This is what disgusts one, and inclines one to set down great profession at once as hypocrisy!" "My mother says that it is more by our lives than by our lips that we should show what we are, and to whom we belong," was Flora’s quiet reply. *CHAPTER II.* *THE VILLAGE.* "Now, charming as I find this mossy seat, and the waving boughs, and the lights and shadows, and the beautiful view before me, and, above all, the lovely companion beside me, it strikes my unpoetical mind," said Ada, "that if we sit longer here, we may find rheumatism added to other country delights." Flora sprang up at once from her seat. "I quite forgot that you were not a country lass like myself," she said; "as it must be almost tea-time now, perhaps we had better return home." "Dinner at one, tea at six--how deliciously old-fashioned and rural!" "Would you object to return by the village? I wished to inquire for poor old Mrs. Arkwright?" "Object! I am only too much delighted to go where there is anything stirring, be it only a baker’s cart!" "I think that some day, Ada, I must introduce you to some of my favourite poor people."