'I am sure,' she said, 'we never knew finer weather than this in England. I don't think there could be finer weather, and still they say the tenants are worse off than ever; that no rent at all, at least nothing above Griffith's valuation, will be paid.' 'Do they speak much of Griffith's valuation at Dungory Castle?' 'Oh! they never cease, and--and--I don't know whether I ought to say, but it won't matter with you, I suppose?--mind, you must not breathe a word of this at Brookfield--the fact is my sisters' school--you know they have a school, and go in for trying to convert the people--well, this has got papa into a great deal of trouble. The Bishop has sent down another priest--I think they call it a mission--and we are going to be preached against, and papa received a threatening letter this morning. He is going, I believe, to apply for police.' 'And is this on account of the proselytizing?' 'Oh! no, not entirely; he has refused to give his tenants Griffith's valuation; but it makes one very unpopular to be denounced by the priest. I assure you, papa is very angry. He told Sarah and Jane this morning at breakfast that he'd have no more of it; that they had no right to go into the poor people's houses and pull the children from under the beds, and ask why they were not at school; that he didn't care of what religion they were as long as they paid the rent; and that he wasn't going to have his life endangered for such nonsense. There was an awful row at home this morning. For my own part, I must say I sympathize with papa. Besides the school, Sarah has, you know, a shop, where she sells bacon, sugar, and tea at cost price, and it is well-known that those who send their children to the school will never be asked to pay their bills. She wanted me to come and help to weigh out the meal, Jane being confined to her room with a sick headache, but I got out of it. I would not, if I could, convert those poor people. You know, I often fancy--I mean fear--I often sympathize too much with your creed. It was only at service last Sunday I was thinking of it; our religion seems so cold, so cheerless compared to yours. You remember the convent-church at St. Leonard's--the incense, the vestments, the white-veiled congregation--oh, how beautiful it was; we shall never be so happy again!' 'Yes, indeed; and how cross we used to think those dear nuns. You remember Sister Mary, how she used to lecture Violet for getting up to look out of the windows. What used she to say? 'Do you want, miss, to be taken for a housemaid or scullery-maid, staring at people in that way as they pass?''