‘He shall see us as we are,’ said the matron when the Polleys were all together in the back parlour one evening before supper. ‘He sha’n’t have to say we were honey to his face and molasses behind his back. Besides, we don’t do nothing we are ashamed of. I tell you what, gals, if he has got any one of you in his eye already, he’s that kind of chap, if I’m not mistaken, he’ll think a deal more of you, and be more likely to grow sweet on you, if he finds you with me and father, in your house-gowns, working at your needles in the parlour here, than if he were supposed to catch you sitting like dressed-up dolls, at your fine-lady nonsense of crochet and bead-work, in the other room, as, I dare say—for I have not been out at the mill-house for years now—I’m a stay-at-home, even if Fan Constable were readier with her invitations—his sister sits from morning till night.’ ‘It’s all you know, mother,’ said ’Mily, a well-grown buxom girl of eighteen; ‘but at least it shows you have not made yourself cheap at Friarton Mill. Fan sees callers in her bare cold hole of a drawing-room certainly; but when I go there, which is precious seldom as I know she would rather have my room than my company, she is always pretending to be notable over a heap of such common hemming and back-stitching as even you can do. Fancy! she was making bed curtains, and not keeping them out of the way either, the last time I was there. She is as busy as any sewing girl over the vicarage old women’s flannel petticoats and children’s cotton frocks. Rather she than I slave for such cattle. We give a good subscription to Mr. Holland’s poor-box, and that’s enough, I should think. But Fan curries favour with the vicarage people, who have taken her up, though Peter Constable was an old chapel-goer like we are, and Oliver goes to chapel still. I am at a loss to tell what gentility she has more than us, except that she’s that proud and stuck-up,’ and ’Mily sat up in her chair with Fan’s most frigid air, amidst the loud applause of her sisters. ‘Now mind what you’re about, ’Mily,’ her mother reproved the actress; ‘you may not be far wrong, and you’re smart at taking people off—there’s no denying it, but you may do it once too often. What would Oliver Constable think if he saw you? He may not have any nonsense about him, but he won’t care to have his sister turned into a laughing-stock.’ ‘I’m sure I don’t mind a fiddle-stick what he cares,’ protested ’Mily, taking high ground. ‘Hold your tongue, and don’t speak again to me, Miss,’ insisted Mrs. Polley. ‘You get too much of your head as it is; but you sha’n’t spoil your chances by your folly before my very eyes.’ ‘It ain’t likely to be me, mother,’ cried ’Mily, rather enjoying the implication. ‘It will be ’Liza if it’s to be any of us. She is fitter to tackle him with her rubbish of poetry, which ought to suit a college man.’