“My good lady,” said the vicar, carried out of himself and out of his natural respect for a peeress by his amusement and elation in being sent for and looked up to as the arbiter, which was a new and unusual position for this good man. “My good lady, is it Frogmore you are speaking of?” He laughed all the time so that all the women could have murdered him. “Frogmore! I’d like to see any one shut up Frogmore in an asylum, or dictate to him what he is to do.” He stopped to laugh again with the most profound enjoyment of the joke. “I think I never heard anything so good. Frogmore! Why he’s only in his sixties--six years younger than I am. Do you think you could put me in an asylum, or make me give up anything I wanted to do, my dear?” He looked up at his wife and rippled over with laughter, while she, almost put upon the other side by this appeal, gave him a glance which might have slain the vicar on the spot. The ladies of his house habitually dictated to the vicar; they put no faith in his power of acting for himself. What he proposed to do they generally found much fault with, and considered him to require constant guidance. But now for once he had his revenge. He went on chuckling over it till their nerves could scarcely sustain the irritation; but for the moment the vicar was master of the situation, and no one dared say him nay. Letitia had taken no part in this, such sense as she had showing her that it was vain to maintain that altogether hopeless struggle. She had her own undertaking ready to her hand, and a much more hopeful one. Mary, who had been placed by her mother in a low chair close to the corner of the fire, was so near to her as to be at her mercy. The vicar’s large person standing in front of the fire shut them off from the rest, throwing a shadow over this pair; and while he occupied the entire space over them with his voice and his laugh, Letitia caught at Mary’s shoulder and began another argument in her ear. “Mary Hill,” she said, “you know you daren’t look me in the face.” “I have done you no harm, Letitia,” said Mary trembling. “You are going to take my children’s bread out of their mouths. They’ll have nothing--nothing! For how can we save off our allowance? The little things will be ruined, and all through you.” “Letitia, oh, for goodness sake, listen to me for a minute. He says it will make no difference. They will not be the worse. I told him I would do nothing against them--and he says if I refuse he will cut them off altogether--Letitia----!” “Don’t talk nonsense to me, Mary Hill! Do you think he will not rather leave his money to his own children than to ours.” “He has no children,” said Mary. “No, not now; but when a man is going to get married----” “Letitia!”