“Master? you may call him young, if it don’t go again your conscience--my notion is as he never was no younger than he is now. So you may put what name to it you please. But you don’t ask me for news of master, nor Mr. John neither--him, oh ah, there’ll be news of him one of these days. He’ll get a cathedral, or he’ll be had up to London. We’ll see him, with his baton in his hand, afore the biggest chorus as can be got together; and won’t he lead ’em grand!” said old Pick. “When he was but a little thing in his white surplice I seen it in his eye.” “You were always one that did my John justice,” said the housekeeper, warmly. “Just to think of it, Pick--one day a bit of a mite in his surplice, and the next, as you may say, with his baton, leading the chief in the land! We bring children into the world, but we can’t tell what’s to come of them,” she added, with pious melancholy. “Them as is fortunate shouldn’t be proud. The young men as I’ve seen go to the bad since I’ve been here!” “That should be a real comfort to you,” said Pickering, and they paused both, to take full advantage of this consolation. Then, drawing a long breath, Mrs. Purcell resumed-- “And so it should, Pick--when I see my boy that respectable, and as good as any gentleman’s son, and reflect on what I’ve seen! But pride’s not for the like of us--seeing the Lord can bring us low as fast as He’s set us up.” The good woman dropped her voice, with that curious dread lest envious fate should take her satisfaction amiss, which seems inherent in humanity. As for old Pick, sentiment was not in his way. He took up a little old-fashioned silver salver which stood on the table with some notes upon it, waiting the sound of the Signer’s bell, and began to polish it with his handkerchief. “Them girls,” he said, “there’s no trust to be put in them. The times I’ve told her to be careful with my plate. She says she haven’t the time, but you and me knows better than that. What is there to do in this house? We gives no trouble, and as for master, he’s dining out half his time.” “She’ll find the difference,” said Mrs. Purcell, “when she’s under a lady. There’s many a thing I does myself. Instead of calling Maryanne till I’m hoarse, I takes and does it myself; but a lady will never do that. Ah, Pick, it’s experience as teaches. They don’t put any faith in what we tell them; and her head full of soldiers, and I don’t know what--as if a soldier ever brought anything but harm to a servant girl.” “They are all alike,” said old Pick. “There’s them Despards in the Lodges--all the Abbey’s talking of them. The Captain--you know the Captain? the one as sings out as if it all belonged to him--though he’s neither tenor, nor alto, nor bass, but a kind of a jumble, and as often as not sings the air!” said the old chorister, with contempt which was beyond words. Mrs. Purcell looked upon the Captain from another point of view.