“Oh, no!” replied Mrs. Woodburn. “That is all the silly talk of the silly, superstitious country people—that is, country people of all sorts—for the farmers are as superstitious as the labourers: and when Sir Emanuel appeared at the hustings at Castleborough to nominate a friend of his as candidate for a parliamentary seat for the county, the farmers set up a great yell, and would not hear him, saying, ‘That is old Clavering who deals with the Devil.’ But it is all because he is a great astronomer, and is seen going out at night to his observatory. The truth is, as I believe—and a sad truth it is, he does not believe in our Saviour.” “Oh! how very sad! how very deplorable!” said the pious-hearted Friend. “I feel greatly drawn to speak with him on the subject. Such a very clever and agreeable man as he is; and to be so far overseen. Truly it is sad that this world’s knowledge makes us blind. And his son Henry, dost thou think he has instilled these unhappy sentiments into him?” Here Mrs. Woodburn bent closer to her friend, and the conversation became still more earnest and engrossing, but carried on in a low tone, and with many pauses, and significant looks and gestures, and not unfrequent deeply-drawn sighs. But the sounds from the tent below, which had been hitherto those of a continuous clatter of tongues, and of merry laughter, now came forth in a chorus of singing voices, in which the bass tones of Thorsby were predominant amid the clear, sweet voices of the young ladies. The tent was like a great cage of warbling birds, or as Mrs. Woodburn said, of happy angels. “Oh!” said she, “I do love to see young people happy. No one knows what after-life may bring. For youth—so a poem which I saw in the newspaper the other day said— ‘It is the time of roses, They pluck them as they pass.’” “I only hope,” said the careful Mrs. Heritage, “that they won’t teach my Millicent any vanities. She is naturally, I think, only too fond of music and singing; and thou knowest our Society sees such a snare in these things.” “Oh! my dear Mrs. Heritage, Miss Heritage will hear nothing here but what is perfectly good. They have been singing only Burns’s sweet ‘Banks and Braes o’ bonnie Doon.’”