There were no English in the place but ourselves, and one other family—that of a gentleman named Giggs, who had fled from England on some political ground, and had lived in this place ever since. The wife and daughter were well enough—sober, plodding women, much given to fine spinning and embroidery—just the women who will sit stitching at a counterpane or hanging, from year's end to year's end, with no more change than from blue silk to red cloth, or from the history of King Arthur to Moses in the bulrushes. Withal they were kindly souls, and would even neglect their beloved tapestry to help some poor woman in trouble. But the husband I liked not at all. He was a busybody in other men's matters—with a mighty conceit of his own knowledge of state craft, as he called it—in short, just the man to be made a spy and a pump of, all the time he was fancying himself as secret as the grave. Of course, he was bound to find out all about us. He tried in vain to pump John Symonds, who was always afflicted with deafness when it did not suit him to hear, and whose tongue was not to be unlocked even by beer. Then he tried Mr. Batie himself, but he might as well have tried to extract a secret from the crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. At last he took himself off, on some secret mission, he said, and we were glad to be rid of him. But we were not done with him yet. The time went on to November, and we were fallen into a very quiet, orderly way of living, as, indeed, every thing was orderly where Mr. Batie was. He was a wonderful grave, staid man, loving all sorts of head-breaking, mathematical studies, and caring little or nothing for the music and poetry which his wife loved. I never saw a man so slow to take a joke, or one who enjoyed it more when he did understand it. But he was a pleasant gentleman to live with. His temper was perfect, and he was faithfulness itself. If Mr. Batie promised to do a thing, 'twas as sure to be done as the sun to rise, unless something made the fulfillment downright impossible. He always did seem to me a little like a schoolmaster, he was so fond of setting one right and giving little bits of information. All the poetry and enthusiasm in him was bestowed on his religion. I never saw one, not even my Walter, to whom the other world seemed at all times so near, and when he read a story in the Bible and commented thereon, he made you see the very place and people. He had been in the Holy Land, where, I suppose, things have not changed a great deal since our Lord's time, and when he told us of Bethlehem and of Nazareth, he fairly carried us into the carpenter's shop and the stable.