“Oh, I was dreaming all sorts of horrid impossibilities,” said Letty, laughing; “climbing over the tops of houses, and the like, and not knowing how to get down.” “Ah, there it is!” said Thorsby. “I shall call and tell that dove-coloured Pythoness that this sort of thing won’t do.” “No!” exclaimed all the family at once, Letty more energetically than the rest, “you must not do that. It would grieve poor Mrs. Heritage so; and there is nothing amiss. I am quite well,” said Letty. “Grieve poor Mrs. Heritage, indeed!” replied Thorsby. “These canting, religious people, however, don’t care whom they grieve.” “I cannot agree to that, Mr. Thorsby,” said Ann. “No nobler-hearted or more humane woman lives than Mrs. Heritage.” “I think,” said Thorsby, “they are selfish, money-grubbing people, these Quakers; and that there’s not much to choose between ‘the Quaker sly’ and canting Methodist.” “Or a backbiting profanian!” said a voice behind. Thorsby turned quickly round, and exclaimed, “Oh, Betty Trapps, so you are there! eh?” Betty had come in for a pie-dish from the great cupboard, and caught the fling at the Methodists just as she was going out. “Ah! just in time, Betty,” said Thorsby. “I’ve got a pleasant anecdote for you.” Betty was moving off, without deigning a reply, when Thorsby said— “You know that your old acquaintance, Molly Ayre, is dead?” “No,” said Betty, stopping at once. “No. Is it true?” “True as gospel,” said Thorsby; “and I want to tell you her dying sayings.” Betty was riveted to the spot by the news of Molly Ayre’s departure and her dying sayings, for she had a great veneration for dying sayings. “Well,” said Thorsby, addressing the company at large, “you know that old Sam Ayre, as we familiarly call him, is a bag-hosier,—that is, he possesses a score of stocking-frames, employs as many stockingers, and brings in his hose to our warehouse. Molly, his wife, kept a little shop. They were both zealous Methodists, and Sam——” “You might as well say ‘Samuel,’ Mr. Thorsby,” interrupted Betty. “And Sam, or Samuel, is a class-leader in high repute. Yesterday comes somebody begging my mother to go to Mr. Ayre’s, as the Missis was dying. Molly Ayre had been a servant at my grandfather’s. My mother hurried off. The poor woman evidently was near her end, and was giving some last directions to her husband, who sat, burly man as he is, drowned in tears on the bed-side. “‘Well,’ continued the dying woman, ‘my dear Samuel, thou’ll find all th’ accounts o’ th’ shop right in th’ book in that drawer there. There’s forty pounds owing to different people, principally to Mr. Fairfax, the grocer. Thou’ll see it punctually paid?’ “‘Eh! poor dear soul!’ said the husband, ‘wandering! You see she’s quite wandering!’ “‘And,’ continued the dying wife, ‘there’s a good deal more owing to us. Thou’ll find it all down i’ the book; and i’ th’ same drawer a good heap of money in a stocking.’