"Not always," said Betty. "I do see him with his head in his hand by the hour, and hear him sigh ever so loud as I pass the door. Why, one day he was fain to have me and my spinning wheel aside him. Says he, 'Let me hear thy busy wheel, and see thee ply it.' 'And welcome,' says I. So I sat in his room, and span, and he sat a gloating of me as if he had never seen a woman spin hemp afore (he is a very simple man): and presently says he--but what signifies what he said?" "Nay, Betty; if you please. I am much interested in him. He preaches so divinely." "Ay," said Betty, "that's his gift. But a poor trencher-man; and I declare I'm ashamed to eat all the vittels that are eaten here, and me but a woman." "But what did he say to you that time?" asked Mrs. Gaunt, a little impatiently. Betty cudgelled her memory. "Well says he, 'My daughter,' (the poor soul always calls me his daughter, and me old enough to be his mother mostly;) says he, 'how comes it that you are never wearied, nor cast down, and yet you but serve a sinner like yourself; but I do often droop in my Master's service, and he is the lord of Heaven and Earth?' Says I, 'I'll tell ye, sir: because ye don't eat enough o' vittels.'" "What an answer!" "Why 'tis the truth, dame. And says I, 'If I was to be always fasting, like as you be, d'ye think I should have the heart to work from morn till night?' Now, wasn't I right?" "I don't know till I hear what answer he made," said Mrs. Gaunt, with mean caution. "Oh, he shook his head, and said he ate mortal food enow (poor simple body!), but drank too little of grace divine. That was his word." Mrs. Gaunt was a good deal struck and affected by this revelation, and astonished at the slighting tone Betty took in speaking of so remarkable a man. The saying that "No man is a hero to his valet" was not yet current, or perhaps she would have been less surprised at that. "Alas! poor man," said she, "and is it so? To hear him, I thought his soul was borne up night and day by angels' pinions--" The widow interrupted her. "Ay, you hear him preach, and it is like God's trumpet mostly, and so much I say for him in all companies. But I see him directly after; he totters into this very room, and sits him down pale and panting, and one time like to swoon, and another all for crying, and then he is ever so dull and sad for the whole afternoon." "And nobody knows this but you? You have got my old petticoat still, I see. I must look you up another." "You are very good, dame, I am sure. 'Twill not come amiss; I've only this for Sundays and all. No, my lady, not a soul but me and you; I'm not one as tells tales out of doors: but I don't mind you, dame; you are my old mistress, and a discreet woman. 'Twill go no further than your ear."