Suddenly the shop bell rang again, and Mrs. Fairfax’s little girl rushed into the parlour. She had fallen down and cut her wrist terribly with a piece of a bottle containing some hartshorn which she had to buy at the druggist’s on her way home from Mr. Cobb’s. The blood flowed freely, but Mrs. Fairfax, unbewildered, put her thumb firmly on the wrist just above the wound and instructed the doctor how to use his pocket-handkerchief as a tourniquet. As he was tying it, although such careful attention to the operation was necessary, he noticed Mrs. Fairfax’s hands, and he almost forgot himself and the accident. “There is glass in the wrist,” she said. “Will you kindly fetch the surgeon? I do not like to leave.” He went at once, and fortunately met him in his gig. On the third day after the mishap Dr. Midleton thought he ought to inquire after the child. The glass had been extracted and she was doing well. Her mother was at work in the back-parlour. She made no apology for her occupation, but laid down her tools. “Pray go on, madam.” “Certainly not. I am afraid I might make a mistake with my scissors if I were to listen to you; or, worse, if I were to pay attention to them I should not pay attention to you.” He smiled. “It is an art, I should think, which requires not only much attention but practice.” She evaded the implied question. “It is difficult to fit, but it is more difficult to please.” “That is true in my own profession.” “But you are not obliged to please.” “No, not obliged, I am happy to say. If my parishioners do not hear the truth I have no excuse. It must be rather trying to the temper of a lady like yourself to humour the caprices of the vulgar.” “No; they are my customers, and even if they are unpleasant they are so not to me personally but to their servant, who ceases to be their servant when she ceases to be employed upon their clothes.” “You are a philosopher, madam; that sentiment is worthy of Epictetus.” “I have read Epictetus in Mrs. Carter’s translation.” “You have read Epictetus? That is remarkable! I should think no other woman in the county has read him.” He leaned forward a little and his face was lighted up. “I have a library, madam, a large library; I should like to show it to you, if—if it can be managed without difficulty.” “It will give me great pleasure to see it some day. It must be a delightful solace to you in a town like this, in which I daresay you have but few friends. I suppose, though, you visit a good deal?” “No; I do not visit much. I differ from my brother Sinclair in the next parish. He is always visiting. What is the consequence?—gossip and, as I conceive, a loss of dignity and self-respect. I will go wherever there is trouble or wherever I am wanted, but I will not go anywhere for idle talk.” “I think you are right. A priest should not make himself cheap and common. He should be representative of sacred interests superior to the ordinary interests of life.”