University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
ROMANCE, PIETY, SENSIBILITY.

Lucy, after the gentle reproof she received from
Mr. Matthews, was careful not to go out in the
evening without a companion; she frequently visited
the cottages of the poor class of industrious peasants,

and as her allowance for clothes and pocket money
was liberal and her habits by no means expensive,
she had many opportunities of relieving the distresses
of some, and adding to the comforts of others.
Sometimes she would tempt Lady Mary to ramble
with her, but that young lady but little understood
the common incidents, and necessities of life, and
even had she comprehended them ever so well, she
was so thoughtless in her expenditure on dress and
trifles, that she seldom had any thing to bestow.
Aura Melville was therefore her usual associate and
adviser in these visits of charity. Her bosom sympathized
in their sufferings, and her judgment suggested
the relief likely to be of most benefit.

One evening Lady Mary had been walking with a
young lady in the neighbourhood, whose tastes and
feelings resembled her own, when, just as the family
were preparing to take their tea, she rushed into the
parlour and in a flood of tears exclaimed, “Oh, my
dear sir, my kind Mr. Matthews, if you do not help
me I shall lose my senses.” “How, my dear?”
said he, approaching the seat on which she had thrown
herself in an attitude of the utmost distress. “Oh,
sir,” said she, sobbing, “I must have five guineas
directly, for I wanted so many things when you paid
me my last quarter's allowance, that I have not a
guinea left.” “I am sorry for that,” replied Mr.
Matthews, “for you know that it will be six weeks
before another payment is due.” “Oh yes, I know
that: but I thought you would be so good as to lend
it to me on this very, very urgent occasion!” “And
pray what may the very, very urgent occasion be?”

asked he smiling, and placing a chair near the tea
table, he motioned with his hand for her to draw nigh
and partake the social meal, for which the rest of the
family were now waiting.

“I cannot eat, indeed I cannot, sir,” she replied
with an hysterical sob, “I can do nothing till you
comply with my request.”

“That I certainly shall not do at present, child.
I must understand for what this sum is required, and
how you mean to dispose of it. Five guineas, Lady
Mary, is a considerable sum; it should not be hastily
or unadvisedly lavished away. It might rescue many
suffering individuals from absolute want.”

“Yes, sir, it is for that I want it, I know you will
let me have it.” “I am not quite so sure about that.
But come, Mary Lumly,” for so the good man was
wont to call her when he was pleased with her,
“come, draw nigh and take your tea, after which
you shall tell your story and to-morrow morning
we will see what can be done.”

“To-morrow! sir, to-morrow!” exclaimed she
wildly, “to-morrow, it may be too late, they are
suffering the extremity of want, and are you so cold
hearted as to talk of to-morrow?”

Miss Blakeney and Aura Melville exchanged
looks with each other. Mr. Matthews sat down and
began his tea. “You must permit me to tell you,
Lady Mary Lumly,” said Mrs. Cavendish, in her
stately manner, “that this is very unbecoming behaviour,
you call it no doubt sensibility; but you give
it too dignified a name. It is an affectation of fine feeling,
it arises more from a wish to display your own

humanity, than from any genuine sympathy. The
heart has little to do with it. You have spoken
rudely to my brother Matthews; he, worthy man,
knows what true sensibility is, and is actuated by its
dictates, though you, disrespectful girl, have called
him cold hearted.”

Resentment at being spoken to, in so plain a style,
soon dried Lady Mary's tears. She seated herself
at the tea table, took her cup, played with her spoon,
poured the tea into the saucer, then back into the
cup; in short, did every thing but drink it.

The tea service removed, Mr. Matthews said,
“come hither, Mary Lumly, and now let us hear
your tragical tale.” Lady Mary's excessive enthusiasm
had by this time considerably abated, but she
felt somewhat vexed at the plain, well meant reproof
of Mrs. Cavendish. However, she seated herself on
the sofa beside Mr. Matthews, and in a concilatory
tone began. “I am afraid that I have not been so
respectful as I ought to be, sir, but my feelings ran
away with me.” “Your impetuosity, you should
say, child,” interrupted Mrs. Cavendish.—Lady Mary
coloured highly. “The evening is really very fine,”
said the good Rector, “come, Mary, you and I will
go and inhale the sweets of the flowers,” then drawing
her arm under his, he led her into the garden.

“So you have been taking a ramble with Miss
Brenton this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir, and we went farther than we intended,
for we went through the little copse, and took a path
which neither of us had any knowledge of, and having
walked a considerable way without seeing any house,

or meeting any one, we began to feel alarmed.” “I
think you were very imprudent, Mary, you might
have encountered ill bred clowns or evil minded persons
who would have insulted you.”

“I know it, sir, but I am very glad I went, for all
that.”

“How so?”

“Why, just as we began to feel a little frightened,
we heard a child cry, and following the sound, we
came to a very wretched hovel, for it could not be
called even a cottage. At the door sat a child about
four years old, crying. “What is the matter child?”
said Miss Brenton. “Mammy is sick and Granny
fell out of her chair, and Daddy a'n't come home yet.”
We both of us were in the hut in a moment, Oh!
dear sir, I never shall forget it, on the bed as they
called it, but it was only some straw laid upon a kind
of shelf made of boards and covered with a ragged
blanket, so dirty that I was almost afraid to go near
it, and—and—on this wretched bed lay a poor pale
woman with a little, very little baby on her arm.”

Lady Mary's lip quivered, Mr. Matthews pressed
her hand and said, “But the poor old Granny? you
have not told me about her.”

“She had been up all the preceding night with her
daughter, and not having any help all day, or much
nourishment I believe, she had fainted and fell out
of her chair; the little girl whose crying had brought
us to the place, had run out in great alarm; but when
we entered the house, the old woman had recovered,
and was sitting, pale as a ghost and unable to articulate,
by the handful of fire, over which hung an iron
pot.”

“Why this is a most deplorable tale, my dear
Mary.”

“But I have not told you the worst, sir.”

“Why I suppose the worst was, you had no money
to give them?”

“No, I had a crown in my purse, and I gave it
to the old woman, who as she looked at it burst into
tears and recovering her speech, said “God forever
bless you.”

“But had Miss Brenton nothing to give?”

“Oh no, sir, she said her sensibility was so great
she could not stay in the hovel, and they were so
dirty that she was afraid of contracting some infectious
disorder.”

“Then that was the worst, for I suppose she ran
away and left you?”

“Yes, she did, and said she would wait for me by
the road side, so while I was inquiring what they
most wanted, and the poor sick woman with the baby,
said, “every thing,” a rough looking man with two
boys and a girl came in; he went to the sick woman,
asked her how she did, and then turning to the old
woman said, “Mother, is there any thing for supper?”
“Yes, thank God,” said the mother, “I have got summut
for ye, John, which a kind hearted christian man
gave me this morn.” She then opened the pot, took
out a small piece of meat, and two or three turnips,
and said, “there, John, is a nice piece of mutton, and
Sally has supped a little of the broth, oh! 'twas a great
comfort to her, and here, dears, taking up some of
the water in which the meat had been boiled, in porringers,
here's a nice supper for ye all.” She then

gave the children each a piece of bread, so black, that
I ran out of the place ashamed that my curiosity had
kept me there so long, when I had so little to give.”

“It was not curiosity, Mary, it was a better feeling:
but had you been mistress of five guineas, and had
them in your purse at that moment would you have
given them?”

“Oh yes, ten, if I could have commanded them,
but now, sir, that you know the whole, you will, I
am sure, lend me the money.”

“We will see about it to-morrow, your crown will
for the present provide a few necessaries, so rest in
quiet, my good girl, for believe me the bit of boiled
mutton and turnips were heartily relished by the
man; and the water as you call it, the children,
who I suppose had been out at work all day, ate
with a keener appetite than you would have partaken
of the most delicate viands.”

The next morning Lady Mary, who was not an
early riser, and did not generally make her appearance
till the rest of the family were seated at the
breakfast table, was surprised, upon entering the parlour,
to find Miss Blakeney, and Miss Melville had
just returned from a walk in which they had been
accompanied by their guardian, their hair disordered
by the morning breeze and their countenances glowing
with health and pleasure.

“You are an idler, Mary Lumly,” said Mr. Matthews,
“but exercise is so necessary to preserve
health that I am resolved that you shall accompany
me in a round of visits to some of my parishioners
this morning.” This was an invitation he frequently

gave to one or the other of the fair orphans under
his protection. The morning was fine, and Lady
Mary hoping he would take the path through the
copse, readily assented, and being soon equipped for
her walk, gaily tripped by his side till she found that
he took a directly opposite path to what she had
expected.

“I was in hopes you would have gone with me to
visit the poor people I mentioned,” said she in rather
a supplicating voice. “All in good time, child,” he
replied, “I have several poor and some sick persons
to visit.” The first cottage they entered, they saw
a pale looking woman at her spinning; near her, two
children seated on a stool, held a spelling book between
them, and in an old high backed arm chair sat
a man, the very picture of misery; his feet and hands
were wrapped in coarse flannel. Every thing around
them indicated extreme poverty, yet every thing
was perfectly clean: the children's clothes were
coarse, but not ragged, the mother preferring a patch
of a different colour, to a hole or rent.

“How are you, neighbour?” said Mr. Matthews,
“and how are you, my good Dame, and how do you
contrive to keep all so tight and orderly, when you
have a sick husband to attend, and nothing but your
own labour to support him, yourself and your children?”
“Oh, sir,” said the woman, rising, “we
have much to be thankful for. The good Sir Robert
Ainslie has ordered his steward to let us live in this
cottage, rent free, till my husband shall get better,
and the house keeper lets little Bessey here have a
pitcher of milk and a plate of cold meat every now

and then, so, please your Reverence, we are not so
bad off as we might be.”

“What is the matter with your husband?” asked
Lady Mary, with a look of wonder at the woman's
expression of contentment, when there was so much
apparent wretchedness around her.

“Why, your Ladyship, Thomas, though he be an
industrious kind husband, was never over strong; he
worked too hard, and last summer took a bad fever;
and when he was getting better he would go to work
again before he had got up his strength; the season
was very wet and he was out late and early, so, you
see, he got a bad cold, and his fever came on worse
than ever, and the rheumatics set in, and ever since
he has been a cripple like, not being able to use his
hands or feet.”

“Dear me, that is very terrible,” said Lady Mary,
“how can you possibly live, how do you get time to
work.”

“I gets up early, my Lady, and sits up late; sometimes
I can earn, one way or another, three and sixpence
a week, and sometimes, but not very often,
five shillings.”

“Five shillings!” repeated the astonished Mary,
“can four people live on five shillings a week?”

“Mr. Matthews had been, during this time, talking
with the invalid, but catching her last words he
replied, “Aye, child, and many worthy honest christians
with larger families are obliged to do with less.”

“We, I am sure,” said Thomas, “ought not to
complain, thanks be to God and my good Dame, we
are main comfortable, but I fear me, your Reverence,

she will kill herself, she washes and mends our
clothes when she ought to be resting, after spinning
all day or going out to work, to help the gentlefolks'
servants to wash and clean house. I sometimes hope
and pray that I may soon recover the use of my
hands and feet, or that it will please my Maker to
lay me at rest.”

“No! no! heaven forbid, Thomas, I can work
very well, I can be contented with any thing, so you
are spared, and you will get well by and by, and
then we shall all be happy again.”

The tears which had for some time trembled in
Lady Mary's eyes, now rushed down her cheeks,
she drew forth her empty purse and looked beseechingly
at Mr. Matthews. He did not particularly
notice her, but asked, “Does the doctor attend you
regularly? Is he kind and considerate.”

“Oh yes, sir, and we gets all the physic and such
stuff from the Potticary without paying, thanks to
you, reverend sir, then the housekeeper at the great
house sent us some oatmeal and sago, a nutmeg and
a whole bottle of wine, and that has made poor
Thomas comfortable for above a month past. Oh we
have so many blessings.”

“Mr. Matthews gave the woman an approving
smile, and presenting her with half a crown, said,
“This young lady desires me to give you this, it
may enable you to add a little to your comforts.
Good morning, continue this humble contented frame
of mind and rely on your heavenly Father, he will
in his own good time relieve you from your difficulties,
or enable you to support them with patience.”

“My dear sir,” said Lady Mary when they had
left the cottage, “what a trifle you gave to that distressed
family.”

“Mary,” replied the Rector, “it is not the bestowing
large sums that constitutes real benevolence, nor
do such donations ultimately benefit the persons on
whom they are bestowed, they rather serve to paralyze
the hand of industry, while they lead the individual
to depend on adventitious circumstances for
relief, instead of exerting his own energies to soften
or surmount the difficulties with which he may be
surrounded.”

Many other calls were made in the course of the
morning, till at length they stopped at a very small
cottage, and on entering, Mary was struck with the
appearance of an elderly man and woman both seemingly
past the period of being useful either to themselves
or others. A few embers were in the grate,
over which hung a teakettle, and on a deal table stood
a pewter teapot, some yellow cups and saucers and
a piece of the same kind of bread, the sight of which
had filled her with such disgust the evening before, a
little dark brown sugar and about a gill of skimmed
milk completed the preparation for their humble
meal.

“Why you are early at your tea, or late at your
breakfast, Gammer,” said Mr. Matthews as he entered.
The old dame laid down the patchwork with
which she had been employing herself, and her husband
closed the bible in which he was reading.

“Bless you, good sir,” said he, “tea is often all our
sustenance and serves for breakfast, dinner and supper,

but we are old, and can take but little exercise, so
a little food suffices; if sometimes we can get a morsel
of bacon or a crumb of cheese to relish our bread, it
is quite a treat, and a herring laid on the coals is a
feast indeed; but it is long since we have known
better times, and we be got used to the change. I
wish indeed sometimes that I had something to comfort
my poor old dame, but since the death of our
little darlings, what sustains our tottering frames is
of little consequence; we are thankful for what we
have.”

“Thankful,” said Lady Mary internally, “thankful
for such a poor shed to keep them from the
weather, such a miserable looking bed to rest their
old limbs upon, and some black tea and dry bread
for their only meal.”

Mr. Matthews saw that she was struck, and willing
to give her time for rumination sat down beside
the old man on a stool. The only vacant wooden
chair being dusted by the dame, Lady Mary seated
herself and pursuing her train of thought, audibly
said. “I should think, poor woman, you had cause
for repining and discontent rather than thankfulness.”

“Ah no, lady,” she replied, “what right have I
to expect more than others; how many thousands in
this kingdom have not even a hovel to shelter them,
scarcely a rag to cover them, and only the bare
ground to sleep on, whilst their poor children beg
their daily bread from door to door.”

“Dreadful!” said Lady Mary, and her cheek
assumed a marble hue.

“But that is not the worst,” continued the woman,
“many of these poor souls are as ignorant as the
blackamoors of Africa, they cannot read their Bibles;
they do not know that idleness is next to thieving;
they do not know the God who made them, or the
Saviour who redeemed them. How much happier
are we! This is a poor place to be sure, but it is our
own, and if our bed is hard, we can lie down with
quiet consciences; if we have but little food we
eat it with thankfulness; and when we are low spirited,
our frames feeble and our hearts oppressed, we
can read the word of consolation in God's own book.
Oh lady, these are great blessings.”

“But I understood from what your husband said,
that you had seen better days; how can you bring
your mind to bear the ills of age and poverty without
complaint.”

“It is because I know that He who has allotted
my portion knows what is best for me. It is because
I am fully sensible that his bounties are far beyond
my deserts.”

“What? such poor fare! such a hut! and you a
good well conducted woman, and these wretched
accommodations more than you deserve?”

“Yes, Lady, had the best of us no more than we
deserve, our portion would be hard indeed. You
say I have seen better days, so I have. But I weary
you, and I beg your pardon, too, Reverend Sir.”

“You have it, dame, go on, tell your story to
that young lady, I have much to say to your good
man.”

Thus encouraged, Gammer Lonsdale again addressed
her attentive auditor. “When I married my
good man there, I had three hundred pounds, which
had been left me by my grandfather, and my husband
had scraped together about as much more. So
we stocked a farm, and for years went on quite well;
we never had but one child, it was a girl, and, God
forgive us! we were very proud of her, for Alice
Lonsdale grew up a very pretty young woman. I
taught her to be domestic, and to use her needle, but
alack-a-day, I did not teach her to know herself.
There was our first great fault, and when people
praised her beauty or her singing, (for Alice sung
sweetly, Lady,) we used to join in the praise, and
her father, poor man, would chuck her under the
chin, and say aye! aye! in good time we shall see
our girl either a 'squire's or a parson's lady. So
Alice grew vain and conceited, and in an evil hour
we consented that she should pay a visit to a neighbouring
market town, and attend a dancing school,
for as we had settled it in our weak heads that she
was to be a lady, it was but right that she should
learn to dance.

“Alice was now turned of fifteen, and during the
time of her visit to Dorking, (for at that period we
lived in Surry,) she became acquainted with a young
man, the son of a reputable tradesman in that town.
After her return, he sometimes called to see her, and,
to make short of my story, when she was eighteen,
with the consent of both his parents and her own,
Alice became his wife. We gave her five hundred
pounds, his father gave him seven hundred, which

furnished a small house neatly in Croyden, where he
had some family connections, and stocked a shop in
the grocery line.

“For some time things went on smoothly; and when
her father and I visited them about a year after their
marriage, we thought they were getting before-hand.
He appeared to be industrious and attentive, and
Alice was cheerful and happy. I staid with my poor
girl during her first confinement, and was very proud
of the little grandson with which she presented me.
After this I saw her no more for two years, but I
used to fancy that her letters were not so sprightly
as formerly. However, I knew that when a woman
becomes a wife and mother, the vivacity of girlhood
is sobered. However some reports having reached
us that her husband was become unsteady, and that it
was thought he was much involved in debt, my good
man took a journey to inquire about it. He found
things worse than had been represented. Alice was
pale, dejected and miserable; her husband had got
acquainted with a set of worthless beings who called
themselves honest fellows; frequented clubs, and
acted private plays, which being done once in the
hall of a public house and money taken for admission,
they were all taken up and had to pay a heavy fine.

“My husband had not been many days in Croyden,
before he had reason to think, that Alice was injured
in the tenderest point, and that with her own domestic;
but she made no complaint, and while her
father was considering what he should do that might
best promote her happiness, Lewis, for that was her
husband's name, was arrested for fifteen hundred

pounds, on his note which he had given for stock,
and as we afterwards learnt, sold at under price to
supply his extravagance. Alice pleaded with her
father to assist him, her situation was delicate, and
old Mr. Lewis being sent for, his affairs were compromised,
the two fathers being bound for him.

“My good man then returned home, where he had
not been more than a month, when one evening just
at dusk, a chaise stopped at the gate, and in a few
moments, Alice, leading her little boy, ran up the
walk, and throwing herself into my arms with an
hysterical sob fainted. It was long before she could
articulate. At length she told us old Mr. Lewis
was dead, his property was not sufficient to pay his
debts, that her heartless husband had taken what valuables
he could collect, and raised money upon every
thing that was not already mortgaged, and absconded
with the abandoned woman I told you about. He
had told Alice that he was going to Dorking to look
into his late father's affairs. Ah, lady, he had been
there before, and gleaned all he could from the
wreck, even to the leaving his old widowed mother
destitute. The same night the woman who lived
with Alice, having asked leave to go out, never
returned, and upon examination it was found that
she had taken her clothes, to which she had added
some of the most valuable belonging to her mistress.

“The next day the furniture of the house was taken
by a man who said he had advanced money upon it,
and my poor girl was literally turned into the street.
In this distress the landlord of a large inn had compassion
on her. He advanced her a few guineas and

sent her in his own chaise to her father, her best and
only friend.

“I found upon inquiry that my child had not been
altogether faultless, she had been thoughtless in her
expenses, and never having been controlled in her
youth, she could not practice the necessary patience
and forbearance which her situation required; so
that instead of weaning her unhappy partner from
his pursuits, she perhaps irritated his temper and
made him more dissipated. A few days after her
return, my husband was arrested upon the note, and
being unable to pay so large a sum, his stock upon
the farm was seized, and not being able to meet his
rent, which from various circumstances had run for
six months, we were obliged to quit the farm and take
a cottage a little way from Croyden. Here Alice
gave birth to a daughter and a few days after was
laid at rest in the grave. But our misfortunes were
not ended. Though by working hard and living
poor, we kept free from debt, yet it was a struggle
to maintain the two children.

“But we managed to keep them clean and tidy, so
that they went to school, and lovely babies they were,
and my vain proud heart made them my idols, but it
was God's will that I should be humbled to the very
dust. One night the thatch of our cottage caught fire
and we awoke almost suffocated with smoke. We
sprang up; I caught up the girl and ran out, but before
my husband could escape with the boy, a rafter
fell, and I thought I had lost them both, but with
great atruggling he got out, though greatly bruised

and burnt. The child was so hurt that he was a
caipple as long as he lived.

“We were now houseless, pennyless and naked;
neither of us very young, my health not good, and my
husband likely to be confined months before he could
go to work, if indeed he should be ever able to work
again. A cottager who lived about a mile from us,
who had got up early to carry something to Croyden
market, saw the fire, and calling his son, they ran to
our assistance, but nothing was saved. He took my
husband on his back; the lad took the boy; both
father and son had pulled off their outer jackets to
wrap them round me and my little girl; and we proceeded
as well as we could to neighbour Woodstock's
cottage.

“They did all they could for us, but they were
poor themselves. However, on applying to the
'squire, of whom we had rented the hut, we had lived
in, he bade his housekeeper send us some old clothes.
She not only obeyed him in that, but brought
us some little comforts, and with her came a sweet
boy about the age of little Alice. When this dear
child went back, he told his father, who was then
visiting the 'squire, how poor and how sick we were,
and the next day brought him to see us.

“Sir Robert Ainslie, for it was he himself, spoke
to us kindly, gave us money to purchase some
clothing, and procured a doctor to visit my husband
and grandson; he also spoke to the minister about us,
and he came to console and pray with us. Oh, lady,
that was the greatest charity of all; for we did not
know where to look for consolation till he taught us.

We had never considered that a good and all wise
Father has a right to chastise his children when and
how he pleases; we had been full of complaining and
discontent before. But he read to us and prayed
with us, and at length convinced us that it was possible
to be happy though poor.

“When my husband got able to move about, the
dear boy, Master Ainslie, came with his father, one
day, and laying a folded paper on my lap said, “Papa
gives you that.” So I opened it and found it was a
gift of this place we now live in, and a promise of
five guineas a year as long as I lived.

“I could not speak to thank him. He told me that
he had lately purchased an estate in Hampshire; that
he had been to look at it and have it put in repair,
just before he came into Surry; that he recollected
this cottage, and had written to his steward to have
it got ready for us, and that he would have us sent
to it free of all expense.

“Well, in a short time we moved here and were
happier than we had ever been in our lives before, for
Sir Robert wrote about us to our good Rector here,
who has comforted and strengthened our minds.
Our dear Alice grew apace; she earned a little
towards clothing herself, and then she was so dutiful
to her grandfather and me, and so kind to her crippled
brother! But seven years agone last Lammas,
the small pox came into the neighbourhood. The boy
took it first. Nothing could separate his siter from
him, and in one short week I followed both my
darlings to the grave.”

The old woman stopped a moment, put her hand
to her forehead, then looking up meekly, cried in
an under tone, “Thy will be done! It will not be
long before I go to them, but they can never return
to me. It was the hand of mercy that took them,
for what had they to make life desirable. The boy's
inheritance was decrepitude and poverty, and poor
Alice had all her mother's beauty, and who knows
what snares might have been laid, what temptations
might have assailed her. She might have been lost
both soul and body. Now, thanks be to God! she
is safe in the house of her heavenly Father.”

“Come, child, it is time for us to be walking,”
exclaimed Mr. Matthews, so taking leave of the old
people, he led her out of the cottage. Perceiving
her cheeks wet with tears which she was endeavouring
to conceal, “These are good tears,” said he,
“indulge them freely, they flow from pity and admiration.”

“From pity, indeed,” she replied, “but I cannot
admire what I do not rightly understand.” Then
pausing a moment, she continued, “Pray, sir, are
not these people methodists?”

“What do you mean by a methodist?”

“I hardly know how to explain myself, but I
know I have often heard my mamma and governess
laugh about some folks that lived in our neighbourhood,
who used to talk a great deal about religion,
and pray and sing psalms, even when they were in
trouble, and they called them methodists!”

“Is it then,” said Mr. Matthews gravely, “a
ridiculous thing to say our prayers, or praise the
name of Him from whom all our blessings proceed?”

“No, sir, but when he has taken from us those
we love, it is difficult to feel perfectly resigned. I
am sure I could not praise him when my mamma
died.”

“But you could pray to him, I hope?”

“No, indeed I could not, I thought him very
cruel.”

“Poor child,” said he tenderly, “what a barren
waste thy mind was at that time.”

“But you have made me better, Sir.”

“I hope God will make you wiser, my love! And
now, Mary, let me advise you, never to use the term
methodist in this way again. Dame Lonsdale and
her husband are good pious members of the church
of England; they are what every christian should
be, humble, devout, and grateful, but let the mode in
which they worship, be what it may, if they are
sincere, they will be accepted: there are many
roads to the foot of the cross, and whichever may be
taken, if it is pursued with a pure and upright heart,
is safe, and He who suffered on it, will remove every
burthen from us whether it be earthly affliction, or sorrow
for committed offences.” While Mr. Matthews
was speaking, a sudden turn in the road made Lady
Mary start, for she beheld just before her, the identical
cottage to which she had been so desirous to
come when they first began their ramble.