"I doubt there is some self-will at the bottom of her heart," said the shepherd, "else she would perceive that there is a truer and purer self-denial in giving up her own tastes and inclinations in indifferent things, and conforming herself to the will and wishes of those about her." "I see," said Jack, thoughtfully. "Then it might be that eating a piece of Cousin Cicely's gingerbread when she did not really care for it, rather than mortify the poor woman by refusing her dainties, would be a more useful penance than going without anything." "For Anne perhaps," replied old Thomas, smiling. Jack laughed. "Truly I never found any mortification in Cicely's gingerbread myself, save when I had eaten too much of it. But, indeed, Uncle Thomas, Anne does mean to do her duty faithfully. She would not do anything wrong for the world, and if she happens to make any little slip she grieves over it for days, and redoubles her penances. But, oh! She is so unhappy. If it had not been for Sir William Leavett, I almost think that living with Anne would have made me hate all religion, because it seems to make her so miserable. I do wish she could be brought to read this book." "Well, dear son, we can but pray for her, and perhaps a way may be opened. Jack," said the shepherd, lowering his voice to a whisper, "don't turn your head now, but in a minute look yonder. Is not someone in hiding behind you thornbush? I have seen it move two or three times, and I am sure I caught sight of a gown." Jack waited a moment, plucking up a pretty good sized clod of earth and grass as he did so. Then, suddenly turning, he hurled the clod with a good aim at the bush, saying, "There is an owl abroad in the daylight." A hasty exclamation, but not in the owl's language, was heard from the bush, which stood on the edge of a steep grassy declivity, and was followed by various gurgling sounds of distress. Jack rushed to the spot, followed more slowly by the old shepherd; and as he reached the bush, he burst into uncontrollable laughter. There was the fat priest of the little church at Holford rolling over and over down the slippery grass slope, clutching vainly at the short herbage, and uttering at intervals cries and interjections, some of them not exactly of a clerical character. "He will tumble into the brook," said the shepherd hastily. "Run down by the path, Jack, and be ready to help him out." Down by the path Jack ran like a deer, but another was beforehand with him. Bevis, the big sheep-dog, was first at the spot, and as the poor priest plunged into the somewhat deep pool at the foot of the slope, Bevis jumped after him and dragged him out with as little ceremony as if he had been one of his own wethers. Jack came to the help of the dog, and between them they got the unlucky father on dry land, and seated him on a sunny bank. "How do you find yourself, father?" said Jack, speaking gravely, though he was choking with laughter.