Then Griffith became moody, and downright unhappy, and went more and more to the "Red Lion," seeking comfort there now as well as company. Mrs. Gaunt saw, and had fits of irritation, and fits of pity, and sore perplexity. She knew she had a good husband; and, instead of taking him to heaven with her, she found that each step she made with Leonard's help towards the angelic life seemed somehow to be bad for Griffith's soul and for his earthly happiness. She blamed herself; she blamed Griffith; she blamed the Protestant heresy; she blamed everybody and everything--except Brother Leonard. One Sunday afternoon Griffith sat on his own lawn, silently smoking his pipe. Mrs. Gaunt came to him, and saw an air of dejection on his genial face. Her heart yearned. She sat down beside him on the bench, and sighed; then he sighed too. "My dear," said she, sweetly, "fetch out your _viol da gambo_, and we will sing a hymn or two together here this fine afternoon. We can praise God together, though we must pray apart; alas that it is so!" "With all my heart," said Griffith. "Nay, I forgot; my _viol da gambo_ is not here. 'T is at the 'Red Lion.'" "At the 'Red Lion'!" said she, bitterly. "What, do you sing there as well as drink? O husband, how can you so demean yourself?" "What is a poor man to do, whose wife is priest-ridden, and got to be no company--except for angels?" "I did not come here to quarrel," said she, coldly and sadly. Then they were both silent a minute. Then she got up and left him. * * * * * Brother Leonard, like many earnest men, was rather intolerant. He urged on Mrs. Gaunt that she had too many Protestants in her household: her cook and her nursemaid ought, at all events, to be Catholics. Mrs. Gaunt on this was quite ready to turn them both off, and that without disguise. But Leonard dissuaded her from so violent a measure. She had better take occasion to part with one of them, and by and by with the other. The nursemaid was the first to go, and her place was filled by a Roman Catholic. Then the cook received warning. But this did not pass off so quietly. Jane Bannister was a buxom, hearty woman, well liked by her fellow-servants. Her parents lived in the village, and she had been six years with the Gaunts, and her honest heart clung to them. She took to crying; used to burst out in the middle of her work, or while conversing with fitful cheerfulness on ordinary topics. One day Griffith found her crying, and Ryder consoling her as carelessly and contemptuously as possible. "Heyday, lasses!" said he; "what is your trouble?" At this Jane's tears flowed in a stream, and Ryder made no reply, but waited. At last, and not till the third or fourth time of asking, Jane blurted out that she had got the sack; such was her homely expression, dignified, however, by honest tears. "What for?" asked Griffith kindly.