ON the Friday evening the Major called for Zachariah. He had not yet returned, but his wife was at home. The tea-things were ready, the kettle was on the hob, and she sat knitting at the window. Her visitor knocked at the door; she rose, and he entered. This time he was a little less formal, for after making his bow he shook her hand. She, too, was not quite so stiff, and begged him to be seated. “Upon my word, madam,” he began, “if I were as well looked after as Mr. Coleman, I doubt if I should be so anxious as he is to change the existing order of things. You would think there is some excuse for me if you were to see the misery and privation of my lodgings. Nobody cares a straw, and as for dust and dirt, they would drive you distracted.” Mrs. Zachariah smiled, and shifted one of her little white-stockinged feet over the other. She had on the neatest of sandals, with black ribbons, which crossed over the instep. It was one of Zachariah’s weak points, she considered, that he did not seem to care sufficiently for cleanliness, and when he came in he would sometimes put his black hand, before he had washed, on the white tea-cloth, or on the back of a chair, and leave behind him a patch of printer’s ink. It was bad enough to be obliged always to wipe the door-handles. “I do my best; but as for dirt, you cannot be so badly off in the Albany as we are in Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell is very disagreeable, but we are obliged to live here.” “If Clerkenwell is so bad, all the more honour to you for your triumph.” “Oh, I don’t know about honour; my husband says it is simply my nature.” “Nature! All the better. I could never live with anybody who was always trying and trying and struggling. I believe in Nature. Don’t you?” This was an abstract inquiry beyond Mrs. Zachariah’s scope. “It is some people’s nature to like to be tidy,” she contented herself with observing; “and others do not care for it.” “Oh, perhaps it is because I am a soldier, and accustomed to order, that I care for it above everything.” Mrs. Zachariah started for a moment. She reflected. She had forgotten it—that she was talking to an officer in His Majesty’s service. “Have you seen much fighting, sir?” “Oh, well, for the matter of that, have had my share. I was at Talavera, and suffer a good deal now in damp weather, from having slept so much in the open air.” “Dear me, that is very hard! My husband is rheumatic, and finds Tarver’s embrocation do him more good than anything. Will you try it if I give you some?” “With profound gratitude.” Mrs. Coleman filled an empty bottle, took a piece of folded brown paper out of the fireplace cupboard, untied a coil of twine, made up a compact little parcel, and gave it to the Major. “A thousand thanks. If faith now can really cure, I shall be well in a week.” Mrs. Zachariah smiled again. “Are you Dissenters?” he asked abruptly. “Yes. Independents.”