"She was, and she was not," said old Rebecca. "Them that knew her might be minded of her. She was like nothing in this world. But, my dear heart, I hear Mrs Edith calling for you. Here be the stairs, and the Credence Chamber, where supper is laid, is the first door on your left after you reach the foot." On the Saturday evening, as they sat round the fire in the Credence Chamber, Edith asked Aunt Joyce if old Dr Cox were still parson of Minster Lovel. "Nay," said she; "I would he were. We have a new lord and new laws, the which do commonly go together." "What manner of lord?" inquired Edith. "And what make of laws?" said Temperance. "Bad, the pair of them," said the old lady. "Why, is he a gamester or drunkard?" asked Lady Louvaine. "Or a dumb dog that cannot bark?" suggested Temperance. "Well, I'd fain have him a bit dumber," was Aunt Joyce's answer. "At least, I wish he'd dance a bit less." "Dance!" cried Edith. "Well!" said Aunt Joyce, "what else can you call it, when a man measures his steps, goes two steps up and bows, then two steps down and bows, then up again one step, with a great courtesy, and holds up his hands as if he were astonished--when there's nothing in the world to astonish him except his own foolish antics?" "But where doth he this?" said Lady Louvaine: "here in the chamber, or out of door?" "Dear heart! in the church." "But for why?" "Prithee ask at him, for I can ne'er tell thee." "Did you ne'er ask him, Aunt?" said Edith. "For sure did I, and gat no answer that I could make aught of: only some folly touching Catholic practice, and the like. And, `Master Twinham,' said I, `I know not well what you would be at, but I can tell you, I lived through the days of Queen Mary, and, if that be what you mean by Catholic practices, they are practices we don't want back again.' Well, he mumbled somewhat about being true to the Church, and such like: but if he be an honest man, my shoes be made of Shrewsbury sweet bread. We tumbled all such practices out of the Church, above forty years gone; and what's more, we'll not stand to have them brought in again, though there be some may try." "They will not bring any such folly in while the Queen liveth, I guess," answered Edith. "Amen! but the Queen, God bless her! is seventy this year." "Would you have her live for ever, Aunt Joyce?" asked Aubrey. "Would she could!" she answered. "As to this fellow, I know not what he'll be at next. He told me to my face that a Papist was better than a Puritan. `Well, Mr Twinham,' said I, `you may be a Papist, but I am a Puritan, and there I tarry till I find somewhat better.'" "Why, Joyce!" said Lady Louvaine, smiling, "thou wert not wont to call thyself a Puritan, in the old days when thou and Bess Wolvercot used to pick a crow betwixt you over Dr Meade's surplice at Keswick."