Just then, sounds came through the door, which showed that they were close outside. Somebody--so far as I could guess from what we heard-- was determined to sit down on the stairs, and Sam was trying to prevail upon him to go quietly to bed. All sorts of queer things were mixed up with it--hunting cries, bits of songs, invectives against Hanoverians and Dissenters, and I scarcely know what else. "Who is that wretched creature?" whispered Flora to me. I had recognised the voice, and was able to answer. "It is Mr Bagnall," said I, "the vicar of Dornthwaite." "A minister!" was Flora's answer, in an indescribable tone. "Oh, that does not make any difference," I replied, "with the clergy about here. Mr Digby is too old for it now, but I have heard say that when he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody." At last Sam's patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and Will between them lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to bed despite his struggles. At least I supposed so from what I heard. About ten minutes later, Sam and Will passed our door on their way back. "Yon's a bonnie loon to ca' a minister," I heard Sam say as he went past. "But what could ye look for in a Prelatist?" "He gets up i' t' pu'pit, and tells us our dooty, of a Sunda', but who does hisn of a Monda, think ye?" was old Will's response. The footsteps passed on, and I was just going to relieve my feelings by a good laugh, when I was stopped and astonished by Flora's voice. "O Cary, how dreadful!" "Dreadful!" said I, "what is dreadful?" "That wretched man!" she said in a tone which matched her words. "He does not think himself a wretched man, by any means," I said. "His living is worth quite two hundred a year, and he has a little private property beside. They say he does not stand at all a bad chance for a deanery. His wife is not a pleasant woman, I believe; she has a temper: but his son is carrying all before him at college, and his daughters are thought to be among the prettiest girls in the county." "Has he children? Poor things!" sighed Flora. "Why, Flora, I cannot make you out," said I. "I could understand your being uncomfortable about Angus; but what is Mr Bagnall to you?" "Cary!" I cannot describe the tone. "Well?" said I. "Is the Lord nothing to me?" she said, almost passionately; "nor the poor misguided souls committed to that man's charge, for which he will have to give account at the last day?" "My dear Flora, you do take things so seriously!" I said, trying to laugh; but her tone and words had startled me, for all that. "It is well to take sin seriously," said she. "Men are serious enough in Hell; and sin is its antechamber."