“Oh, I would make short work with Jenny’s difficulties!” said Frederick. That was totally a different question. He went on expounding his views to her about his brothers till Mrs. Eastwood found the evening cold, and went in shivering a little and far from happy. She had come to one of the enigmas of life of which the _fin mot_ was yet to find, and out of which she could not see her way. CHAPTER XXIII. AMANDA. Frederick’s fever had come to a crisis. The next day was Saturday, and, without waiting his mother’s answer, he went down to Sterborne in the afternoon. He could wait no longer. Sterborne is a little town with a large old church. It would be almost a village but for the minster, which gives it dignity; and all the people of the place are accustomed to consider their minster as their private property, and to exhibit it to strangers as something in which they themselves have had a hand, and for which thanks are due to them--and not only thanks, but shillings and sixpences. Frederick’s arrival at the little inn was accordingly set down without doubt to the attractions of the minster; and while he ate his luncheon the guides who particularly attached themselves to that establishment collected outside, to be ready for his service as soon as he should appear. “The minster, sir? here you are, sir!” said one sharp small creature, half man, half boy, with elf looks and unnaturally bright eyes. “I’m the reg’lar guide,” said another. “Them fellows there don’t know nothing--not a single haltar, or the names of the tombs as are all about the place.” “I can do you a rubbing of the brasses, sir.” “Here’s photographs, sir, of all the favourite aspects.” Thus he was surrounded and beset. He could have knocked them all down, with pleasure, as they struggled in his way; but as that was not practicable, he threw their ranks into utter rout by saying plainly, “I don’t want to go to the minster”--a speech which filled the crowd of Sterborne with absolute consternation, and almost produced an insurrection in the place. That any man should profess himself indifferent to the centre of their town and the world startled them beyond measure. “What did he come to Sterborne for, if not to see the minster?” While they dispersed from his path, with an assured conviction in their minds that he must be an infidel and revolutionary, Frederick called the imp who had first offered his services. “I want to go to Mr. Batty’s,” he said. “To old Batty’s!” cried the lad, turning a somersault on the spot: “here you are, sir.” “He’s going to old Batty’s!” cried one of the assistants: and there was a roar of laughter, which Frederick did not understand, but which made him angry by instinct. “Why did they laugh?” he asked, when he had left that mob behind him, and was following his guide through the High Street. “We all laughs at old Batty,” was the reply.