She took from him a large brown volume that bristled with inserted slips of paper. He crossed the room and opened the door for her, and Jane-Anne went out with her head held high. "Just like he did for Mrs. Methuen," she reflected ecstatically. When she had gone Mr. Wycherly went and stood at the window and looked out into the night. The sky was unclouded, of a deep, soft, soothing blue, and right in a line with his window shone one star. "I wonder," he pondered, "what made him call her after Byron’s daughter." When Jane-Anne reached the kitchen, proudly bearing her volume of Wordsworth, she found her aunt sitting at the newly scrubbed kitchen table darning a stocking. "What made you stop so long for?" Mrs. Dew inquired tartly, "hindering and worritin’ the master. It don’t take half an hour to say ’thank you, and my duty to you.’" "The master set a chair for me and talked to me," Jane-Anne replied gloriously, "and when I came away he opened the door for me, just like he did for Mrs. Methuen when she came the other day, and he’s lent me a great big poetry book. Look at it! Oh, aunt, I do believe the Almighty must be just like Mr. Wycherly." Mrs. Dew nearly dropped her stocking. "Jane-Anne!" she exclaimed in tones of horrified amazement, "how you can stand there and say such things passes me. Go to bed this minute, you inyuman child. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, that you ought." "But, aunt," Jane-Anne expostulated, "Miss Stukely, the lady that taught us Sundays, she said we must love God, be always loving Him, and always talking about Him; we couldn’t think and talk too much about Him; the more we did it the fitter we’d be for heaven, and I’ve never seen anybody before as I’d like Him to be like—so where’s the harm?" The child spoke with breathless earnestness. Mrs. Dew stared at her, intensely disapproving. "How you can stand there," she repeated; "how you can have the face to stand there and talk about the Almighty bein’ _like_ anybody, just as if He was your next door neighbour, turns me cold. Where’s your respect? Where’s your sense of decency? I’ll have none of your revival ways here, I can tell you; quiet, respectable church I’ve always been, with none of such goin’s on. It’s quite enough for most of us to do our duty in that station of life without talking familiarly of lovin’ and such. _Go_ to bed, I tell you, and let me hear no more of such fandanglements, and I’ll come in ten minutes to fetch your candle and bring you that hot milk as is all over skin you’ve been so long. Now bustle about smartish." Jane-Anne bustled. Mrs. Dew leant back in her chair as one quite unable to cope with the force of circumstances. "My stars! Good fathers!" exclaimed Mrs. Dew. "If that’s the sort of thing they teaches at the Bainbridge it’s more than time my niece was took away."