"You're wrong again. It's because the wife of a parish priest, even when she has no children of her own"--here the Vicar winced, flushed, and went on rapidly--"nine times out of ten has a whole parish to mother--clothing-clubs, Sunday-school classes, mothers' meetings, children's outings, choir feasts,--it's all looking after people, clothing 'em, feeding 'em, patting 'em on the head or boxing their ears and telling 'em to be good--which is just the sort of business a virtuous woman delights in. _She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household and a portion to her maidens_. 'A portion to her maidens'; you see she used to measure out the butter in Solomon's time." "It wouldn't do in this parish," she said with a laugh. "They'd give notice at once." "God forgive me that I brought you to this parish, Agatha!" "Now if you begin to talk like that--when I've really made a beginning!" She pointed in triumph to the stacks of missives on the writing-table. "It's I who bungled, the other day, when I suggested your giving Mrs Polsue a duplicate list of the names and addresses. I thought it would please her and save you half the secretarial labour; and now it appears that you _like_ the secretarial labour!" "What has happened?" Mrs Steele asked. "Well, young Obed Pearce rode over to see me yesterday. He's in great distress of mind, poor fellow; dying to enlist and serve his country, but held back by his parents, who won't hear of it. As if this wasn't torture enough, in the midst of it he gets an envelope by post--addressed in a feigned hand, and with no letter inside, but just three white feathers." "Oh, hateful! Who could be so wicked?" "I met Lippity-Libby at the gate this morning. 'Look here,' I said; 'this is a pretty poison you are sowing on your rounds': and I showed him the feathers which young Obed had left with me. 'I know you can't help it,' said I, 'but if the Post Office can stop and open suspected circulars, surely it can refuse to help this abomination!' 'I've delivered pretty well a score, sir,' said he; 'and I wish you or some person would write to the papers and stop it.' 'Well,' I said, 'it's not for me to ask if you have a guess who sends this sort of thing about?' He rubbed his chin for a while and then answered: `No, Parson; nor 'tisn't for me to tell 'ee if I do: but if you _should_ happen to be strollin' down t'wards the Quay, you might take a look at Mrs Polsue's Cochin-China hens. The way them birds have been moultin' since the War started--'" "Robert! You don't tell me that woman plucks the poor things alive!" "Ay: and takes the bleeding quills to draw more blood from young men's hearts." CHAPTER XIX. I-SPY-HI!