“Nobody can ever call Molly the late one, now Mr. Earnshaw is here,” cried Phil exulting. They all received him as one of themselves, and in everything they said there was a silent suggestion that he belonged to them, that he was to remain with them, which bewildered him beyond words. The letters on the table were about every subject under heaven. They had their domestic correspondence, I suppose, and family affairs of their own; but these epistles were all about “schemes” of one kind and another, plans for the reformation of heaven knows how many classes of society, and for the improvement of the world altogether, which indeed has great need of improvement. I cannot tell what the special question might be that morning; there were so many of them that it was difficult for a stranger to discriminate; and as Lady Mary had told him, she and her husband very seldom agreed. They were both intensely in earnest, and both threw themselves with all their might into everything they did. Edgar, however, was not in a mood to utter any oracles, or to associate himself with one scheme or another. He was disposed to enjoy the strange holiday which had come to him, he could not tell how. He left the father and mother to themselves, and addressed himself to the children. “Phil,” he said, “you and I are ignoramuses, we don’t know about these deep matters. Talk to me of something within my capacity; or Molly, if Phil will not talk, do you.” The reply to this was that both children talked together. “Mr. Earnshaw, the ice is bearing; what an awful pity it’s Sunday!” said the boy, “I wanted to tell you whenever you came in--” and “Oh, Mr. Earnshaw, come to church with us, and I’ll show you the village and my pet old woman who tells us stories,” said the little girl. Edgar was delighted. He asked about the ice, what it was, an ornamental piece of water, or the village pond; and told Molly he would go and see her village, and try whether he or she could remember most of the sermon. Phil interfered when he heard this bargain. He shook his head over the rashness of his new friend. “She has an awful good memory,” he said, “I wouldn’t try against her, Mr. Earnshaw, if I was you. She remembers what people said ages and ages ago, and comes down upon you after you have forgotten all about it. I wouldn’t go in against Moll.” “But I haven’t such an awfully good memory for sermons,” said Molly, with modest deprecation of the excessive praise, “though I do remember most things pretty well.”