"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of the hospital." It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us. In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. * "Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever." * This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields. "Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?" "I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all week, and we have no money." "And where is your father?" "I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many days, and mother cries so I can't ask her." "He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which he will come to be burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him right, too, for speaking slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with the same sauce." "For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you speak so to the worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly. "Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the old woman, with a cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to heretics—we are!" "We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked, hard-hearted old woman, who owes two quarters rent, would be turned into the street as she deserves," rejoined my aunt, severely. "You had better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay your debts."