still “seller,” “fare,” “due”—any of which she might have needed—all had their dangerous doubles, and she did not write “call” without carefully discriminating it from “Cawl, of a Wig or Bowels.” “Punctuality and dispatch” was lifted bodily from Miss Gentry’s billheads, and if she did not offer to send off goods to Asia and Africa, it was because only “Europe, America, and Australia” figured on Mr. Flippance’s posters. The recipient of this impressive communication was staggered by the strides in female education made since his boyhood. He betook himself at once—to his mother’s joy—to the Bible, like a Cromwell before a great battle. Martha had stolen the book back to the kitchen and was pondering texts anxiously when he wandered in to hunt for it. “Who sent you a letter?” she inquired uneasily. “Old Quarles,” he answered readily. “It’s about an order he can’t supply, and he asks me to tell you his granddaughter won’t be coming to-day.” Martha’s face lit up. “What a pity!” she cried. “She might have taken my bonnet to Miss Gentry to be re-trimmed.” Martha had become reconciled to this minor vanity, now it was strategically unnecessary. “However, your young legs can do that, dearie, now they’re back, can’t they?” “With pleasure, mother,” he said, all unconscious of the lapsed plan. “Why waste money on carriers?” She kissed him passionately, but seeing his anxiety to be at the Bible, she released him. “I should look at Revelation, one, ten, Willie,” she advised, “and you’ll understand why the Sabbath——” “Yes, yes,” he interrupted soothingly. “Also Colossians, two, sixteen and seventeen—the seventh day is but a shadow of things to come.” “I see,” he said, escaping. It took hours of hard theological study—indeed till Saturday morning—before the reply to Jinny shaped itself: “SIR,—Mr. William Flynt thanks Mr. Daniel Quarles for his esteemed epistle, and regrets to learn that a coach-horn of suitable size for a gentelman is not to be had in Chipstone. I beseech you, however, not to superscribe to Chelmsford as Methuselah cannot fetch such a compass, and the righteous man regardeth his beast. Neither do I require a horn at her hand now or henceforwards. “Yours truly, “WILLIAM FLYNT. “P.S.—Do you think that a maiden of your years aught to superscribe alone to Chelmsford, a city full of lewdness and abominations, where men use deceit with their tongues and the poison of asps is under their lips?” “What are you writing, Will?” said his mother, coming in to sun herself in his holy studies. “Nothing.” He put his hand over the page of the copy-book, forgetting she could not read it. “Are you writing to Jinny?” she inquired suspiciously. “No, no—-it’s Daniel,” he corrected. “Daniel!” she said in amaze. “About the Sabbath?” “No, about the horn,” he blurted out petulantly.