"No, no! I speak of her mind, her poor, weak mind. She is still a child. I beg of you to look after her, Mrs Jeal. We must make her path as pleasant as we may." "Then I beg your reverence will tell that Barker to leave her alone." "Barker, Barker? Ah, yes, the sexton--of course. Worthy man." Mrs Jeal sniffed. "He won't let her stay in the chapel," she said. "Tut! tut! This must be seen to. Poor Pearl is God's child, Mrs Jeal, so she has a right to rest in His House. Yes, yes, I'll see to it. Good-day, Mrs Jeal." The woman dropped a curtsey, and for the first time shot a glance at Pratt, who was smiling blandly. A nervous expression crossed her face as she caught his eye. The next moment she drew herself up and passed on, crossing herself. Pratt looked after her, still smiling, then hurried to rejoin the vicar, who began to explain in his usual wandering way. "A good woman, Mrs Jeal, a good woman," he said. "For some years she has had charge of Pearl Darry, whom she rescued from her cruel father." "Is that the insane girl?" said Pratt, idly. "Do not talk of one so afflicted in that way, Mr Pratt. Pearl may not be quite right in her head, but she is sane enough to conduct herself properly. If the fact that she is not all herself reached Portfront"--the principal town of the county--"it is possible that the authorities might wish to shut her up, and that would be the death of Pearl. No, no!" said the good vicar, "let her have a fair share of God's beautiful earth, and live to a happy old age. In this quiet place we can afford one natural." "Like the village idiot we read about in Scotch tales," said Pratt. "Just so, Mr Pratt. In _Waverley_ there is such a one. Pearl Darry is quite harmless, and really has a very beautiful nature. Mrs Jeal is much to be commended for her charity." "She looks a charitable woman," said the American, but whether he meant this ironically or not it is hard to say. The women of Colester were mostly lace-workers, and toiled at this fairylike craft while their husbands worked in the fields below. During three seasons the mountain men, as they might be called, ploughed the meadow-land, sowed the corn and helped to reap and harvest it. In the winter they returned to live on their earnings and take a holiday. But the women worked all the year through, and Colester lace was famous. As the vicar and Pratt walked down the street, at the door of every house sat a woman with her pillow and pins dexterously making the filmy fabric which was destined to adorn the dress of many a London beauty. They were mostly serious-looking, and some even grim. But all had a smile for the vicar, although they pursed up their lips when they saw the good-natured face of Pratt. Most unaccountable this dislike they had for the American. He was rather annoyed by his pronounced unpopularity. "I must really do something to make them like me," he said, much vexed.