He shook his head compassionately over the preposterous state of mind betrayed by such a demand, and with a fresh burst of abuse of his brother, and an assurance to the vicar’s wife that he meant to ‘gie that oald man nawtice when he got haum; he wasn’t goan to hev his bisness spiled for nowt by an oald ijiot wi’ a hed as full o’ yale as a hayrick’s full o’ mice,’ he raised his whip and the clattering vehicle moved forward; Jim meanwhile preserving through all his brother’s wrath and Mrs. Thornburgh’s wailings the same mild and even countenance, the meditative and friendly aspect of the philosopher letting the world go ‘as e’en it will.’ So Mrs. Thornburgh was left gasping, watching the progress of the lumbering cart along the bit of road leading to the hamlet at the head of the valley, with so limp and crestfallen an aspect that even the gaunt and secretly jubilant Sarah was moved to pity. ‘Why, missis, we’ll do very well. I’ll hev some scones in t’oven in naw time, an’ theer’s finger biscuits, an’ wi’ buttered toast an’ sum o’ t’best jams, if they don’t hev enuf to eat they ought to.’ Then, dropping her voice, she asked with a hurried change of tone, ‘Did ye ask un’ hoo his daater is?’ Mrs. Thornburgh started. Her pastoral conscience was smitten. She opened the gate and waved violently after the cart. John pulled his horse up, and with a few quick steps she brought herself within speaking, or rather shouting, distance. ‘How’s your daughter to-day, John?’ The old man’s face peering round the oilcloth hood of the cart was darkened by a sudden cloud as he caught the words. His stern lips closed. He muttered something inaudible to Mrs. Thornburgh and whipped up his horse again. The cart started off, and Mrs. Thornburgh was left staring into the receding eyes of ‘Jim the Noodle,’ who, from his seat on the near shaft, regarded her with a gaze which had passed from benevolence into a preternatural solemnity. ‘He’s sparin’ ov ‘is speach, is John Backhouse,’ said Sarah grimly, as her mistress returned to her. ‘Maybe ee’s aboot reet. It’s a bad business au’ ee’ll not mend it wi’ taakin.’ Mrs. Thornburgh, however, could not apply herself to the case of Mary Backhouse. At any other moment it would have excited in her breast the shuddering interest, which, owing to certain peculiar attendant circumstances, it, awakened in every other woman in Long Whindale. But her mind--such are the limitations of even clergymen’s wives--was now absorbed by her own misfortune. Her very cap-strings seemed to hang limp with depression, as she followed Sarah dejectedly into the kitchen, and gave what attention she could to, those second-best arrangements so depressing to the idealist temper.