"Ah!" cried Mr. Dryland, raising his eyes so that he looked exactly like a codfish, "how few of us can say that!" "I'm seriously distressed about my girls. They live in nasty little cottages, and eat filthy things; they pass their whole lives under the most disgusting conditions, and yet they're happy. I can't get them to see that they ought to be utterly miserable." "Oh, I know," sighed the curate; "it makes me sad to think of it." "Surely, if they're happy, you can want nothing better," said James, rather impatiently. "But I do. They have no right to be happy under such circumstances. I want to make them feel their wretchedness." "What a brutal thing to do!" cried James. "It's the only way to improve them. I want them to see things as I see them." "And how d'you know that you see them any more correctly than they do?" "My dear Jamie!" cried Mary; and then as the humour of such a suggestion dawned upon her, she burst into a little shout of laughter. "What d'you think is the good of making them dissatisfied?" asked James, grimly. "I want to make them better, nobler, worthier; I want to make their lives more beautiful and holy." "If you saw a man happily wearing a tinsel crown, would you go to him and say, 'My good friend, you're making a fool of yourself. Your crown isn't of real gold, and you must throw it away. I haven't a golden crown to give you instead, but you're wicked to take pleasure in that sham thing.' They're just as comfortable, after their fashion, in a hovel as you in your fine house; they enjoy the snack of fat pork they have on Sunday just as much as you enjoy your boiled chickens and blanc-manges. They're happy, and that's the chief thing." "Happiness is not the chief thing in this world, James," said Mary, gravely. "Isn't it? I thought it was." "Captain Parsons is a cynic," said Mr. Dryland, with a slightly supercilious smile. "Because I say it's idiotic to apply your standards to people who have nothing in common with you? I hate all this interfering. For God's sake let us go our way; and if we can get a little pleasure out of dross and tinsel, let us keep it." "I want to give the poor high ideals," said Mary. "I should have thought bread and cheese would be more useful." "My dear Jamie," said Mary, good-naturedly, "I think you're talking of things you know nothing about." "You must remember that Miss Clibborn has worked nobly among the poor for many years." "My own conscience tells me I'm right," pursued Mary, "and you see Mr. Dryland agrees with me. I know you mean well, Jamie; but I don't think you quite understand the matter, and I fancy we had better change the conversation." VII Next day Mary went into Primpton House. Colonel Parsons nodded to her as she walked up the drive, and took off his spectacles. The front door was neither locked nor bolted in that confiding neighbourhood, and Mary walked straight in.