The minister nodded, and smiled at old Betty, who so jealously followed the story of her husband's early life.
‘Well, when hoo put her piece daan afore me, I couldn't tak' mi een off her. Aw were fair gloppent (taken by surprise), an' aw did naught but ston' an' stare at her.
‘“What arto starin' at?” hoo said, flushin' up to her yure (hair).
‘“At yo',” I said, as gawmless as a nicked goose.
‘“Then thaa'd better use thi een for what th'art paid for, an' look at them pieces i'stead o' lookin' at lasses' faces.”
‘And hoo walked aat o' th' warehaase like a queaan. An' dun yo' remember, Betty, haa th' young gaffer laffed at me, an' said as aw could noan play wi' th' likes o' yo'?’
‘Yi, aw remember, Malachi; but ged on wi' yor tale. Mr. Penrose here is fair plagued.’
‘Indeed, I'm not. Go on, Malachi. Take your own time, and tell your story in your own fashion.’
‘Aw will, Mr. Penrose, if hoo'll nobbud let me. Betty were a four-loom weyver; and i' those days there wernd so many lasses as could tackle th' job. An' th' few that could were awlus piked up pratty quick for wives—for them as married 'em had no need to work theirsels, and had lots o' time on their hands for laking (playing) and such-like. Bud that wernd th' reason aw made up to Betty. It wernd th' looms that fetched me; it were her een. There's some breetness in 'em yet; bud yo' should ha' sin 'em forty years sin'! They leeted up her bonnie cheeks like dewdrops i' roses; an' noabry 'at looked i' them could see ought wrang i' 'em.’
‘Malachi, if thaa doesn't hold thi tung I'll smoor (smother) thee wi' this stockin'. Thaa'rt as soft as when thaa were a lad;’ and the old woman held up the article of clothing that she was darning in her hand, and shook it in a threatening manner at her eloquent spouse.
‘In a bit, Mr. Penrose, I geet as I couldn't for shame to look into Betty's een at all; an' then aw took to blushin' every time hoo come i' th' warehouse wi' her pieces, an' when hoo spoke, aw trembled all o'er like a barrow full o' size. One day hoo'd a float in her piece, and aw couldn't find it i' mi heart to bate her. And when th' manager fun it aat, he said if I'd gone soft o'er Betty, it were no reason why aw should go soft o'er mi wark, and he towd me to do mi courtin' i' th' fields and not i' th' factory. But it were yeasier said nor done, aw can tell yo', for Betty were a shy un, and bided a deal o' gettin' at.
‘There used to be a dur (door) leadin' aat o' th' owd warehaase into th' weyvin' shed, an' one day aw get a gimlik an' bored a hoile so as aw could peep thro' an' see Betty at her wark. It wernd so often as aw'd a chance, bud whenever th' manager's back were turned, an' aw were alone, I were noan slow to tak' my chance. It were wheer I could just see Betty at her looms. Bless thee, lass, aw think aw can see thee naa, bendin' o'er thi looms wi' a neck as praad as a swan's, thi fingers almost as nimble as th' shuttle, an' that voice o' thine treblin' like a brid!’
‘Do ged on wi' yor tale, Malachi; what does Mr. Penrose want to know abaat lasses o' forty year sin'? He's geddin' one o' his own—and that's enough for him, aw'm sure.’
‘Aw nobbud want him to know that there were bonnie lasses i' aar time as well as i' his—that were all, Betty.’
‘Well, ged on wi' yo', an' durnd be so long abaat it, Malachi.’
‘One day, Mr. Penrose, as aw were peepin' through th' hoile i' th' warehaase dur at Betty, aw could see that there were summat wrong wi' one o' th' warps, for hoo were reachin' and sweatin' o'er th' loom, an' th' tackler were stannin' at her side, an' a deal too near and o' for my likin', aw con tell yo'.
‘Just as hoo were stretchin' her arm, and bendin' her shoulders to get owd o' th' ends, the tackler up wi' his an' clips her raand th' waist.
‘Well, hoo were up like a flesh o' greased leetnin', and fetched him a smack o'er th' face as made him turn the colour o' taller candles. Yo' remember that, Betty, durnd yo'?’
‘Yi! aw remember that, Malachi,’ said the old woman, proudly recalling the days of her youthful prowess; ‘there were no man 'at ever insulted me twice.’
‘When aw see th' tackler put his arm raand Betty, I were through th' dur and down th' alley wi' a hop, skip and jump, and hed him on th' floor before yo' could caant twice two. We rowl'd o'er together, for he were a bigger mon nor me, an' I geet my yed jowled agen th' frame o' th' loom. But I were no white-plucked un, an' aw made for him as if aw meant it. He were one too mony, however, for he up wi' his screw-key and laid mi yed open, an' I've carried this mark ever sin'.’ And the old man pointed to a scar, long since healed, in his forehead. ‘Then they poo'd us apart, an' said we mutn't feight among th' machinery, so we geet up an' agreed to feight it aat i' th' Far Holme meadow that neet, an' we did. We fought for over hawve an haar, summat like fifteen raands, punsin' and o' (kicking with clogs). As aw told yo', he were th' bigger mon; bud then aw hed a bit o' science o' mi side, an' I were feytin' for th' lass aw luved, an' when he come up for th' fifteenth time, I let drive atween his een, and he never seed dayleet for a fortnit.’
‘An' thaa were some stiff when it were all o'er, Malachi,’ said Betty.
‘Yo're reet, lass! Aw limped for more nor a week, but aw geet thee, an' aw meant it, if aw'd had to feight fifteen raands more—’
‘So, like the knights of olden time, Malachi, you fought for your fair lady and won her.’
‘Nay, Mr. Penrose, you morn'd think he nobbud won me wi' a feight; he'd summat else to do for me beside that. Aw noan put mysel up for a boxin' match, aw con tell yo'.’
‘Nowe, Mr. Penrose, th' feight were nobbud th' start like. It were sometime afore th' job were settled. Yo' see, I were a shy sort o' a chap and back'ard like at comin' for'ard. One day, haaever, Molly o' th' Long Shay come up to me when th' factory were losin', and hoo said, “Malachi, arto baan to let Amos Entwistle wed that lass o' Cronshaw's? for if thaa art thaa'rt a foo' (fool). Thaa'rt fond o' her, and hoo's fond o' thee. If hoo's too praad to ax thee to be her husband hoo's noan too praad to say 'Yea' if tha'll nobbud ax her to be thi wife.”
‘Molly o' Long Shay were noan sich a beauty, bud aw felt as aw could aw liked to ha' kuss'd her that day, an' no mistak'.
‘“Ey, Molly,” aw said, “if aw thought thaa spok' truth, aw'd see Betty to-neet.”
‘“See her, mon,” hoo said, “an' get th' job sattled.”
‘Well, yo' mun know, Mr. Penrose, that Betty's faither were fond o' rootin' i' plants, an' as aw'd a turn that way mysel I thought aw'd just walk up as far as his haase, and buy a twothree, and try and hev a word wi' Betty i' th' bargain. So aw weshed mysel, and donned mi Sunday best, and went up.
‘When aw geet theer, Betty were i' th' garden by hersel, as her faither were gone to a deacons' meetin' at Rehoboth.
‘“What arto doin' up here, Malachi?” hoo sez.
‘“I've nobbud come up to see thi faither abaat some flaars,” aw stuttered.
‘“He'll noan be up for an hour or two yet,” hoo said. “He's gone to Rehoboth. Is it a flaar as aw con get for thee?”
‘“Yi!” aw sez, “yo' con get me th' flaar aw want.”
‘“Which is it?” said hoo. “Is it one o' those lilies mi faither geet fro' th' hall?”
‘“Nowe,” aw said; “it didn't come fro' th' hall; it awlus grow'd here.”
‘“Well, if thaa'll tell me which it is, thaa shall hev it; where abaats is it?”
‘Mr. Penrose, did yo' ever try an' shap' your mouth to tell a lass as yo' luved hir?’
Mr. Penrose remained silent.
‘Well, if ever yo' did, then yo' know haa aw felt when hoo axed me where th' flaar were as aw wanted. Aw couldn't for shame to tell her. Then hoo turned on me an' said:
‘“If thaa'll tell me where the flaar is I'll give it thee, but don't stand grinnin' theer.”
‘Then aw plucked up like. Aw said: “Aw think thaa knows where th' flaar is, Betty. An' as thaa said I mun hev it, I'll tak' it.” And I gave her a kuss on th' cheek 'at were nearest to me.’
‘And did she strike you as she struck the tackler?’ asked Mr. Penrose.
‘Did hoo strike me—? Nowe; hoo turned t'other cheek and geet a better and longer kuss nor th' first.’
‘So that is how Malachi won you, is it, Betty? The story is worth a chapter in a novel.’
‘Nay, aw wernd so easily won as that, Mr. Penrose. There were summat else i' th' way, and aw welly thought once he'd ha' lost me.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Well, yo' see,’ said Malachi, ‘Betty were a dipper, an' I were a sprinkler. And when I axed th' old mon for Betty he said as dippin' and sprinklin' wouldn't piece up. And then hoo were a Calvin an' I were a Methody, and that were wur and wur.
‘Th' owd mon stood to his gun, and wouldn't say “Yez” till I gave in; an' aw stood to mi gun, and to Betty an' o', an' towd her faither 'at aw were as good as ony on 'em. One day th' lass come to me wi' tears in her een, and said:
‘“Malachi, didsto ever read Solomon's Song?”
‘“Yi, forsure aw did. Why doesto ax me that question?”
‘“Doesto remember th' seventh verse o' th' last chapter?” hoo said.
‘“Aw cannot say as 'ow I do. What is it?”
‘“It's that,” said hoo, puttin' her little Bible i' my hand.
‘And when I tuk it aw read, “Many waters cannot quench love.”
‘“Well,” aw sez, “what abaat that?”
‘“Why,” hoo cried, “thaa'rt lettin' Rehoboth waters quench thine.”
‘“Haa doesto mean?” aw axed.
‘“Why, thaa willn't be dipped for me.”’
Here Mr. Penrose broke into a hearty laugh, and complimented Betty, telling her she was the sort of woman to make ‘converts to the cause.’ Then old Malachi put on his wisest look, and continued:
‘Mr. Penrose, aw mut as weel tell yo' afore yo' get wed, that it's no use feightin' agen a woman. They're like Bill o' th' Goit's donkey, they'll goa their own gate, an' th' more yo' bother wi' 'em th' wur they are. A mon's wife mak's him. Hoo shap's everythin' for him, his clooas, his gate, and his religion an' o'. Talk abaat clay i' th' honds o' th' potter, why it's naught to a man i' th' honds o' his missus.’
‘So you were baptized for the love of Betty, were you, Malachi?’
‘Yi; bud I were no hypocrite abaat it, for aw told her aw should never be a Calvin, an' aw never have bin. Doesto remember what thaa said, Betty, when aw tell'd thee aw should never be a Calvin?’
‘Nay, aw forget, lad; it's so long sin'.’
‘Bud aw haven't forgetten. Thaa said, “Never mind, thaa's no need to tell mi faither that; thaa can keep it to thisel.” Aw'll tell yo' what, Mr. Penrose, a woman's as deep as th' Longridge pit shaft.’
‘Well, thaa's never rued o'er joinin' Rehoboth, Malachi.’
‘I've never rued o'er weddin' thee, lass; an' aw think if thaa'd gone to a wur place nor Rehoboth aw should ha' followed thee. Leastways, I shouldn't ha' liked thee to 'a' tempted me.’
‘But thaa's not tell'd him all, Malachi.’
‘Nowe, lass, aw hevn't, but aw will. Have yo' seen yon rose-tree that grows under the winder—that tree that is welly full durin' th' season?’
The minister nodded.
‘Well, when aw fetched her fro' her faither, hoo said aw mun tak a flaar an' o', as aw coomd for one on th' neet as aw geet her. So aw took one o' th' owd felley's rose-trees, an' planted it under aar winder theer, and theer it's stood for nigh on forty year, come blow, come snow, come sun, come shade, an' the roses are still as fresh an' sweet as ever. An' so art thaa, owd lass,’ and Malachi got up and kissed into bloom the faded, yet healthy, cheek of Betty, his conquest of whom he had just narrated to Mr. Penrose, and whom he still so dearly loved.
VIII.
MR. PENROSE BRINGS HOME A BRIDE.
When Rehoboth heard of the coming marriage of Mr. Penrose many were its speculations on the woman he was taking for wife. Amos Entwistle said ‘he'd be bun for't that th' lass wouldn't be baat brass noather in her pocket nor in her face’; to which old Enoch's wife replied that ‘hoo'd need both i' Rehoboth, where they fed th' parson on scaplins (stone chippings), and teed his tung with deacons' resolutions.’
Milly wondered ‘if th' lass 'ud be pratty,’ and ‘what colour her een 'ud be’; while old Joseph declared ‘hoo'd be mighty high-minded, but that hoo were comin' to wheer hoo'd be takken daan a bit.’
The most philosophic judgment was that of Malachi o' th' Mount, who, turning on Amos one evening in the chapel yard, said:
‘Look here, owd lad; it were yor pleasure to stop single; it were mine to get wed. We both on us pleeased aarsels; let th' parson do th' same. He'll noan ax thee to live wi' th' lass; he'll live wi' her hissel. Then let him pleease hissel.’
One or two of the women vexed themselves as to whether she would be a Martha or a Mary; and when Deborah Heap was appealed to she said, ‘Let's hope hoo'll be a bit o' both.’
Old Joseph, overhearing this last remark, injected his venom by hinting that ‘no doubt hoo'd be a Mary, but that th' maister at whose feet hoo'd sit would be a different sort to Him as went to Bethany.’
Then it was Abraham Lord's wife suggested that Joseph should ‘find th' parson a pair o' wings, so as he might mate hissel wi' a angel, for she was sure naught less 'ud suit Rehoboth fo'k.’ And Oliver o' Deaf Martha's wife climaxed the discussion by saying, ‘if that were bein' a parson's wife, hoo'd rather be where hoo were, although their Oliver did tak' drink and ooine (punish) her.’
‘I'll tell thee what, lad,’ said Mrs. Lord to her husband on the night of the chapel yard conclave—‘I'll tell thee what. I feel fair grieved for that lass th' parson's wed. They'n mad' up their minds they'll never tak' to her; and there's no changin' th' mind o' Rehoboth.’
‘But we'll tak' to her, mother,’ cried Milly, crossing, with her crutch, from the window at which she had been sitting, to take her place at her mother's side. ‘We'll tak' to her; aw con luv onybody 'at Mr. Penrose luves.’
‘Bless thee, lass! aw beleeve thaa con. An' we will tak' to her, as thaa sez. Fancy thee leavin' me to get wed, an' livin' i' a strange place, and all th' fo'k set agen thee afore they see thee! It mak's mi heart fair wark (ache).’
‘But thaa knows, misses, hoo'll happen not tak' to thee an' Milly. Hoo'll happen be a bit aboon yo'—high-minded like.’
‘Hoo'll tak' to Milly if hoo's takken to Mr. Penrose, lad; thaa'll see if hoo doesn't. Didn't he read a bit aat o' one o' her letters where hoo said hoo were fain longin' to see Milly becose hoo liked th' flaars an' stars an' sich like?’
‘Yi; he did forsure.’
‘Aw know hoo'll tak' to me, mother. An' if hoo doesn't, I'll mak' her, that's all.’
‘Aw don't somehaa think 'at Mr. Penrose ud wed a praad woman, Abram. Do yo'?’
‘I durnd think he would, lass. Bud then th' best o' men mak' mistakes o'er th' women they wed.’
‘Yi; they say luv's gawmless; but aw welly think Mr. Penrose knows what he's abaat.’
‘Th' Lord help him, if he doesn't! They say a mon hes to ax his wife if he's to live.’
‘Aw yerd Amos say t'other day, faither, that a chap hed to live thirty year wi' a woman afore he know'd he were wed.’
‘Did th' owd powse say that, lass?’ cried Milly's mother. ‘I nobbud wish I'd yerd him. He's lived more nor thirty year baat one, an' a bonny speciment he is. Bud it's a gradely job for th' woman 'at missed him. He were welly weddin' Malachi o' th' Mount's wife once over.’
‘Yi; hoo'd a lucky miss, an' no mistak'. But happen hoo'd ha' snapped him.’
‘Never, lad. There's some felleys that no woman can shap', and Amos is one o' em.’
‘Aw towd him, faither, that yo' know'd yo' were wed, and yo'd nobbud been agate seventeen year.’
‘An' what did he say to that, Milly?’ asked her mother.
‘Why, he towd me aw know'd too mich.’
And at this both Abraham and his wife joined in hearty laughter.
‘When does Penrose bring his wife to Rehoboth, missis?’
‘Saturday neet. We's see her for th' fust time o' Sunday mornin'. Hoo's baan to sit wi' Dr. Hale.’
‘There'll be some een on her, aw bet,’ said Abraham.
‘Wernd there, just. Poor lass! I could fair cry for her when aw think abaat it. An' away fro' her mother, an' o'.’
‘But then hoo'll hev her husband, wernd hoo?’ asked Milly.
‘For sure hoo will; bud he'll be i' th' pulpit, and not agen her to keep her fro' bein' 'onely like.’
‘Ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for a woman to see her felley in a pulpit.’
‘Don't thee go soft on parsons, lass,’ said her father.
If there had been no other welcome to the minister's wife on her Sabbath advent at Rehoboth, there was the welcome of Nature—the welcome born of the bridal hour of morn with moorland, when the awakening day bends over, and clasps with its glory the underlying and far-reaching hills. From out a cloudless sky—save where wreaths of vapour fringed the rounding blue—the sun put forth his golden arms towards the heathery sweeps that lay with their rounded bosoms greedy for his embrace, and gave himself in wantonness to his bride, kissing her fair face into blushing loveliness, and calling forth from the womb of the morning a myriad forms of life. Earth lay breathless in the clasp of heaven—they twain were one, perfect in union, and in spirit undivided. Rehoboth was seductive with a sweetness known only to the nuptials of Nature in a morning of sunshine on the moors.
It wanted two hours before service, and the young wife was wandering among the flowers of the garden of the manse that was to be her home, her spouse seated at his study window intent on the manuscript of his morning's discourse. Intent? Nay, for his eye often wandered from the underscored pages to the girl-wife who glided with merry heart and lithe footstep from flower to flower, her skirts wet as she swept the dew-jewels that glistened on the lawn and borders of the gay parterres. She, poor girl! supposing herself unwatched, drank deeply of the morning gladness, her joyous step now and again falling into the rhythmic movements of a dance. She even found herself humming airs that were not sacred—airs forbidden even on weekdays in the puritanic precincts of Rehoboth—airs she had learned in the distant city once her home. Was she not happy? and does not happiness voice itself in song? And is not the song of the happy always sacred—and sacred even on the most sacred of days?
Alas! alas! little did the young wife know the puritanic mood of Rehoboth. Behind the privet hedge fencing off the paradise, on this good Sunday morning, lurked Amos Entwistle.
The old man, hearing the voice on his way to Sunday-school, stopped, and, peeping through the fence, saw what confirmed his bitterest prejudices against the woman whom Mr. Penrose had married; and before a half-hour was passed every teacher and scholar in Rehoboth school was told that ‘th' parson bed wed a doncin' lass fro' a theyater.’
Standing in his desk before the first hymn was announced, Amos cried in loud tones:
‘Aw seed her mysel donce i' th' garden, on God's good Sunday morn. I seed her donce like that brazened (impudent) wench did afore King Herod, him up i' his study-winder skennin' at her when he ought to ha' bin sayin' o' his prayers. An' aw yerd her sing some mak' o' stuff abaat luv, and sich like rubbidge. What sort o' a wife dun yo' co that? G' me a lass as can strike up Hepzibah, and mak' a prayer. It's all o' a piece—short weight i' doctrin', and falderdals i' wives.’
And as Amos finished the delivery of this sentiment, and held the open hymn-book in his hand, he reached over to administer a blow on the ears of a child who was peeping through the window at a little bird trilling joyously on the deep-splayed sill outside.
During the pause between the close of Sunday-school and the commencement of morning service, congregation and scholars darkened the chapel yard in gossiping groups, each on the tiptoe of curiosity to catch a first glimpse of the bride of their pastor. All eyes were turned towards the crown of the hill which led up from the manse, and on which Mr. Penrose and his wife would first be seen. More than once an approaching couple were mistaken for them, and more than once disappointment darkened the faces of the waiting folk. With some of the older members weariness overcame curiosity, and they entered the doors, through which came the sound of instruments in process of tuning, while Amos Entwistle, cuffing and driving the younger scholars into the chapel, upbraided the elder ones by asking them ‘if th' parson were the only chap as hed ever getten wed?’
At last the well-known form of the preacher was silhouetted on the brow of the hill, and by his side the wife whose advent had created such a prejudice and distaste, unknown though she was, among these moorland folks. The murmur of announcement ran round, and within, as well as without, all knew ‘th' parson's wife wor amang 'em.’
As the couple entered the chapel yard the people made way, ungraciously somewhat, and shot the young bride through and through with cruel stares. Mr. Penrose greeted his congregation with a succession of nervous nods, jerky and strained, his wife keeping her eyes fixed on the gravestones over which she was led to the chapel doors.
‘Sithee! hoo's getten her yers pierced,’ said a loudly-dressed girl, a weaver at the factory in the vale.
‘Yi; an' hoo wears droppers an' o',’ replied the friend whom she addressed.
‘Ey! haa hoo does pinch,’ critically remarked Libby Eastwood, the dressmaker of the village.
‘Nay, Libby; yon's a natural sized waist—hoo's nobbud small made, thaa sees,’ said the woman to whom the remark had been made.
‘Well, aw'd ha' donned a bonnet on a Sunday.’
‘Yi; so would I. An' a married woman an' o'—aw think hoo might be daycent.’
‘Aw'll tell thee what, Mary Ann—there's a deal o' mak' up i' that yure (hair), or aw'm mista'en.’
‘Yo're reet, lass; there is, an' no mistak'.’
‘Can hoo play th' pianer, thinksto?’
‘Can hoo dust one?’
‘Nowe, aw'll warnd hoo cornd.’
‘Hoo thinks hersel' aboon porritch, does yon lot.’
‘Dun yo' think hoo can mak' porritch?’ sneered Amos to the woman who passed the unkindly remark.
‘Nowe, Amos, aw durnd. Yon lass'll cost Penrose some brass. Yo'll see if hoo doesnd.’
While this criticism was going on in the chapel yard, Mrs. Penrose was seated in the pew of Dr. Hale, somewhat bewildered and not a little overstrained. Here, too, poor woman, she was unconsciously giving offence, for on entering she had knelt down in prayer, Old Clogs declaring that ‘hoo were on her knees three minutes and a hawve, by th' chapel clock;’ while at the conclusion of the service, after the congregation were on their feet in noisy exit, her devotional attitude led others to brand her both as a ‘ritual’ and a ‘papist.’
During the afternoon there was a repetition of the morning's ordeal, and at the service the young wife was again the one on whom all eyes were fixed, and of whom all tongues whispered. Never before had she been so called to suffer. If the keen glances of the congregation had been softened by the slightest sympathy she could better have stood the glare of curiosity; but no such ray of sympathy was there blended with the looks. Hard, cold, and critical—such was the language of every eye. Rehoboth hated what it called ‘foreigners’—those who had been born and brought up in districts distant from its own. All strange places were Nazareths, and all strangers were Nazarenes, and the cry was, ‘Can any good thing come out therefrom?’ And to this question the answer was ever negative. Outside Rehoboth dwelt the alien. In course of years the prejudice towards the intruder submitted itself to the force of custom, and less suspicious became the looks, and less harsh the tongues. Even then, however, the old Rehobothite remained a Hebrew of Hebrews; while the others, at the best, were but proselytes of the gate. It was the first brunt of this storm of suspicion from which the minister's wife was suffering, and she was powerless to stay it, or even allay its stress; nor could her husband come to her deliverance. Milly, however, like the good angel that she was, proved her friend in need, and all unconsciously, and yet effectively, turned the tide of cruel and inquisitorial scorn first of all into wonder and then into delight.
And it came about in this manner. As the congregation were leaving the chapel at the close of the afternoon service, and poor Mrs. Penrose, sorely bewildered, was jostled by the staring throng, Milly pushed her way with her crutch to the blushing woman, and, handing her a bunch of flowers, said:
‘See yo', Mrs. Penrose, here's a posy for yo'. Yo're maister sez as yo' like flaars, an' aw've grow'd these i' my own garden. Aw should ha' brought 'em this mornin', but aw couldn't ged aat; an' mi mother wouldn't bring 'em for me, for hoo said aw mun bring 'em mysel.’
Mrs. Penrose could not translate the vernacular in which the child spoke, but she could, and did, translate the gift; and tears came into her eyes as she reached out her hand to take from the crippled girl the big bunch of roses, tiger-lilies and hollyhocks which Milly extended towards her. There was a welcome in the flowers of Rehoboth, if not in the people, thought she; and, at any rate, one little soul felt warmly towards her.
As Mrs. Penrose looked at the blushing flowers and caught the scents that stole up from them, and as she looked at the little face on which suffering had drawn such deep lines—a little face that told of pity for the lonely bride—a home feeling came over her, and she felt that there was another in Rehoboth, as well as her husband, by whom she was loved. To Mrs. Penrose little Milly's gift made the wilderness to rejoice and the desert to blossom as the rose; and, stooping, she kissed the child, while her tears fell fast and starred the flowers she held in her hand.
That kiss, and the tears, won half the hearts of the Rehoboth congregation.
‘Hoo's a lady, whatever else hoo is,’ said an old woman; ‘an' if hoo's aboon porritch, hoo's none aboon kissin' a poor mon's child.’
That evening, as Mr. Penrose walked with his wife along the path of the old manse garden, he turned to her, saying:
‘This has been a trying Sunday, little woman.’
‘Yes; but I've got over it, thanks to that little lame girl. It was her nosegay that brought me through, Walter, and that little face of hers, so full of kindly concern and pity. You don't know how hard my heart was until she came to me—hard even against you for bringing me here.’
‘And you kissed Milly, didn't you, Lucy?’
‘Yes. I didn't do wrong, did I?’
‘No. That kiss of yours has touched hearts my theology cannot touch. You are queen here now.’
‘Yours—and always!’
Then he drew her to his side, and kissed her as she had kissed Milly, and on lips as sweet and rosy as the petals that fell at their feet.