'Well, what's he like?' '_Like?_ He's like--like nothing,' said Lucy, whose vocabulary was not extensive. 'He's fat and ugly--wears spectacles. Father says he's a treasure--to me--and then when they're in the shop I hear him going on at him like anything for being a stupid. And I have to give the creature tea when father's away, to clear up after him as though he were a school-child. And father gets in a regular passion if I ask him about the dance and there's a missionary tea next week, and he's made me take a table--and he wants me to teach in Sunday School--and the minister's wife has been talking to him about my dress--and--and--No, I _can't_ stand it, Dora--I can't and I won't!' And Lucy, gulping down fresh tears, sat intensely upright, and looked frowningly at Dora as though defying her to take the matter lightly. Dora was perplexed. Deep in her dove-like soul lay the fiercest views about Dissent--that rent in the seamless vesture of Christ, as she had learnt to consider it. Her mother had been a Baptist till her death, she herself till she was grown up. But now she had all the zeal--nay, even the rancour--of the convert. It was one of her inmost griefs that her own change had not come earlier--before her mother's death. Then perhaps her mother, her poor--poor--mother, might have changed with her. It went against her to urge Lucy to make herself a good Baptist. 'It's no wonder Uncle Tom wants you to do what he likes,' she said slowly. 'But if you don't take the chapel, Lucy--if you want something different, perhaps--' 'Oh, I don't want any _church_, thank you.' cried Lucy, up in arms. 'I don't want _anybody_ ordering me about. Why can't I go my own way a bit, and amuse myself as I please? It is _too_, too bad!' Dora did not know what more to say. She went on with her work, thinking about it all. Suddenly Lucy astonished her by a question in another voice. 'Have you seen Mr. Grieve's shop, Dora?' Dora looked up. 'No. Father's been there a good many times. He says it's capital for a beginning and he's sure to get on fast. There's one or two very good sort of customers been coming lately. There's the Earl of Driffield, I think it is--don't you remember, Lucy, it was he gave that lecture with the magic lantern at the Institute you and I went to last summer. He's a queer sort of gentleman. Well, he's been coming several times and giving orders. And there's some of the college gentlemen; oh, and a lot of others. They all seem to think he's so clever, father says--' 'I know the Earl of Driffield quite well,' said Lucy loftily, 'He used to be always coming to our place, and I've tied up his books for him sometimes. I don't see what's good of being an earl--not to go about like that. And father says he's got a grand place near Stalybridge too. Well, if _he's_ gone to Mr. Grieve, father'll be just mad.' Lucy pursed up her small mouth with energy. Dora evaded the subject.