inspired by the last mouthfuls of coffee essence, he
turned to her and began :
" And now, Miriam, what are you going to do to
hasten the coming of the Kingdom ? I think it is time
that you took a more decided stand, and began some
definite Christian work. What do you say to a Bible
class? We are in want of a teacher."
" A Bible class ! " the girl exclaimed ; " what would
I teach?"
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"Just the simple Gospel story; no wisdom is re-
quired for that," said Mr. Hobbes, and really believed
what he said.
" Wisdom is more required in the teaching of reli-
gion than in anything else in the world/' said Miriam,
with an energy and conviction that struck her listeners
dimib. There was silence for quite a minute, till Mrs.
Sadler exclaimed :
"Oh, my dear! how dare you speak up to Mr.
Hobbes in that way ! "
" Because I mean it, and believe it, mother, and I
do not see why one should noj say what one thinks,"
her daughter answered. She had risen from her chair,
flushed and trembling, ready to fight for liberty of
speech. In an evil hour Mr. Hobbes began to argue
with this strayed sheep of his fold.
" Oh, that just depends on whether one's opinions
are right and wise and good opinions," he began. But
Miriam would have none of his arguments.
" Not in the least," she said ; " it just depends on
whether the opinions are mine — ^my own. If they are,
then they are right for me, whatever all the world
may think or believe."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sadler.
What serpent was this that she had been warming in
her bosom all these years? Of late she had been a lit-
tle unhappy about Miriam somehow, but never, never
had she feared that things were as bad as this — that
daughter of hers should assert her claim to freedom of
thought and speech as opposed not only to Mr. Hobbes
but to all the thinking, believing world !
" She takes after her poor father, Mr. Hobbes," she
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said, with a dismally prophetic shake of her head. It
was generally known in Hindcup that the late Mr.
Sadler had been something of a trial to his wife. He
was not a native of the little town, and that fact alone
was an offense to the townspeople ; then he had never
consorted much with anyone there, and had been
known to have a dangerous love of books. These were
all suspicious facts. He had a nasty, sarcastic tongue,
and used it freely against those of his neighbors who
offended him, and alas, very frequently against his
wife. It was npt Mrs. Sadler's fault that she was stu-
pid ; and it was certainly his fault that he had married
her; but these were facts that Joseph Sadler had al-
ways ignored in his contemptuous references to the
wife of his bosom. Such a husband had been no great
loss ; and the widow may perhaps be excused for ex-
claiming so sadly that her child " took after him."
There was another ominous silence; then Miriam
got up and left the room. When she was gone, her
elders drew nearer to one another and discussed this
new position that she had taken up.
Their conclusions, when arrived at, were distress-
ingly mistaken. Miriam was to be "lovingly" and
unwearyingly " dealt with " by one member or another
of their community. Mr. Hobbes himself would " take
an early opportunity" of speaking to her, and he
would mention her case to another church member
who had great powers of winning young souls.
Finally, in deep distress, Mrs. Sadler asked Mr.
Hobbes to pray with her for her erring child. The
prayer was offered up ; but prayers are not always an-
swered exactly as we wish them to be. /
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CHAPTER in
HiNTx:up-iN-THE-FiELDS, as you would judge from
its name^ lies among meadows wide and marshy.
It is scarcely possible to walk across them without
getting your feet wet; but this moist soil induces a
lush growth of delightful flowers and grasses — but-
tercups, cuckoo-pints, and buck-beans. Here Miriam
loved to walk conferring with her own heart, and
gloating with an extraordinary rapture upon the beau-
tiful world. It was not always easy for her to get out,
for girls of her class are not brought up to an out-
of-door life, and Mrs. Sadler preferred to see her
daughter sewing in the afternoons. But more and
more of late the girl disregarded her mother's hints,
and went off to the meadows for hours at a time.
A meandering path, which twisted so as to avoid
the marshiest bits of the fields, wound along in the
direction of the Manor. It was little frequented, and
at the crossing of two fences there was a low stile with
two steps. Here Miriam used to sit, watching until
the sun had gone down, a red ball behind the church
spires and house roofs of Hindcup. Then, when the
dusk began to fall, and the quiet of evening stole over
the land, she reluctantly turned her steps homeward.
A few days after the Sunday evening of her revolt,
Miriam came slowly along this favorite path toward
the stile. Rather to her surprise, she saw that some
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one was there before her, and the next moment she
recognized Mr. Alan Gore. She hesitated, stood still
for a moment, and then came on. Gore rose from the
stile to let her pass, and then, seeing who it was, turned
to speak to her.
" I am blocking up the stile," he said, as he moved
aside.
Miriam could not reply — her thoughts were in a
wild confusion. Would she dare ? — She must ; it was
life itself at stake! She turned her strange face to
him, unsmiling, troubled.
"Sir," she cried, "will you lend me some books?
You said — ^you — " Her words trailed off into silence.
Would he be angry ?
" Books ? Why, yes ; I am honored to lend you any-
thing in my power," said Gore, with a gravity and
kindness that set all her fears at rest. He motioned
to the stile. " Won't you sit down and tell me about
yourself? " he said. " Then I shall know better what
to send you."
" I do not know what to tell you. I do not know
where to begin ! " Miriam exclaimed. She sat down
on the €tep of the stile, and Gore leaned against the
fence, waiting for her to begin her story.
"Well?" he asked.
" I want knowledge, and I cannot get it. I want to
find a failh that satisfies me— or even an unbelief
that is certain — I want, a life — " She hesitated, and
stopped again.
"Have you ever seen any of Blake's pictures?"
Gore asked suddenly. "No? Well, there's one ab-
surd little thumb-nail sketch of two little manikins
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putting up a ladder to try to reach the stars, and under
it is written, ' / want! I want! ' That's about your —
all our — ^position, is it not? "
"That's it, that's it!" cried Miriam, clasping her
hands together in an ecstasy — the ecstasy of finding
herself understood at last. " * / want, I want ' ; and
I know of no ladder to reach the stars."
" There is none," said Gore gravely.
" Oh, sir, don't say that ! some people reach them ;
surely you have reached them yourself ! "
" I ? " he said, in unaffected surprise. " No, no ;
' I want, I want/ too, and ever shall, till this race is
run."
"Ah, but then you are running the race," said
Miriam bitterly.
"And can you not run yours?" he asked.
" If I had one, perhaps — oh, I do not know where
to turn," she cried.
" May I give you some advice? Do not be in too
great a hurry to choose your road," said Gore. " You
are young, and so must probably wander about on
a good many wrong paths before you find the right
one. You must have patience with yourself."
Miriam considered this bit of advice in silence.
Youth is proverbially impatient, so this was not very
palatable counsel. Gore went on after a minute :
"What books do you wish to have? What have
you already read ? "
" I wish to read all the poets, all the historians, all
the novelists," she began, and then laughed at her
own absurdity; and Gore laughed with her.
" There's a life-work for you ! " he said. " But why
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do you wish to do all this reading? What is to be the
end of it all ? Have you any aim before you ? "
"Yes, I must get away from the world I live in
now, and I am not fit for any other yet. I wish to be
able to live among people who care for the same things
that I care for."
"Why do you wish to leave your own world?"
Gore asked kindly.
" Because every week I seem to grow farther away
from everyone in it; they do not like me; even my
own mother would like me to be different from what
lam."
Gore looked upon the ground and meditated. This
was a very curious young woman. He felt sorry for
her, but was it wise to help her to widen the gulf
which seemed already to lie between her and her
people?
"Well," he said at length, "you shall have the
books, ril send you any number on one condition —
that you work at them, not reading only, but reread
them to find out all they have to teach you. That
never hurt anyone yet. Perhaps they will help you;
that will largely depend upon yourself. FU send them
next week. When you are quite done with them, will
you send them back to me, and write to me, telling me
what you have gained from them — if an3rthing? Then
ril send you some more, if you wish for them. Does
this arrangement suit you? "
Miriam sat quite silent for a minute. Large tears
welled up in her eyes, and fell down on the blue cot-
ton gown she wore. Then she said : " I think there
must be a God."
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" Why ? " Gore asked, curious to have her answer.
But she only shook her head ; she either could not or
would not reply; he did not press the question, but
took out a pencil from his pocket and an envelope.
" Where shall I send the books to? Will you give
me your full name and address?" he said. A world
of difficulties flashed before Miriam at this question.
What would her mother say? Only a few days ago
she had heard Mr. Alan Gore denounced as a " free-
thinker " by Mr. Hobbes ; how would she permit books
of his choosing to enter her house? But for this diffi-
culty Miriam quickly invented a remedy. She had
but one friend in Hindcup— to this friend's house the
books must be sent.
"Will you please address the books to Miriam
Sadler, The Old House, Hindcup?" she said ; and Gore
wrote down the address unsuspiciously. How could
he guess that " The Old House " was not her home?
" Very well, then," he said, shutting up his pencil.
" You shall have the books ; take as much time as you
please with them, and get all the help you can out of
them, and don't be discouraged." He held out his
hand to her, smiling his kind, interesting smile, and
turned away.
Miriam watcheH till a bend of the path hid him from
sight ; then she rose from the stile and walked slowly
off toward Hindcup. The refrain of one of the chapel
hymns haunted her memory, with its lilting old tune :
" There is a better world they say,
Oh, so bright! Oh, so bright! "
" There is, indeed, with men like that in it," she said
tp herself bitterly.
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CHAPTER IV
You must now learn something about Miriam's
only friend in Hindcup. Some ten years before this
story begins, an elderly woman, Miss Geraldine Foxe,
inherited considerable house property in Hindcup.
She came, in consequence, to live there ; but from her
first settlement in the town, showed no inclination to
be friendly with her neighbors. Their visits were not
returned, and after a time the kindly ladies of Hind-
cup ceased ringing at Miss Foxe's door bell. She
lived in a very old house — known for that reason as
" The Old House " — which stood a little way out from
the town on the Goodhampton Road. Its roof was
covered with the moss of centuries, its garden was
only a wilderness of tangled bushes, where with diffi-
culty one could trace the hedges that had once been
trim and clipped. Antiquarians who visited Hindcup
often tried to gain access to the old house, but Miss
Foxe would not allow it. She would not be disturbed
by anyone. This mysterious-looking house had always
had a curious attraction for Miriam. She used to go
and gaze through the big, old, wrought-iron gate
which was so seldom opened that its hinges were all
rusted over, wondering what histories had gone on
behind it. As children do, she exaggerated the glories
of the old place, and in fancy saw kings and prin-
cesses wandering down the grass-grown paths under
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the yew hedges. Then as she grew older, Miriam rec-
ognized that this was unlikely, and that even in its
halcyon days The Old House could never have been
magnificent; but she kept her love for it. She never
passed the gate without pausing to look through it,
and her childish wish to see the inside of the house
was strong as ever. One evening, when Miriam was
standing thus at the gate, Miss Foxe came toward it ;
the girl turned politely away but Miss Foxe called
after her.
" Stop ! " she said. " Tell me why you are looking
in ; I have seen you do it before though you have not
seen me."
Miriam was rather annoyed, and a little alarmed.
" I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said ; " but ever
since I was a child I have thought The Old House so
beautiful and interesting, and liked to look at it."
"What do you mean by interesting?" Miss Foxe
demanded. She had come close up to the gate, and
spoke through the bars.
" I mean as if interesting, wonderful things had
happened in it," Miriam said hesitatingly.
"What sort of things?"
"I am not sure, ma'am; but I think I ^ could
imagine."
Miss Foxe fitted the key into the gate and it creaked
open.
" Come in," she said ; " and call me * Miss Foxe,' not
* ma'am,' for I see you are a girl of education. I want
none of your ' ma'ams ' ; tell me your name and come
in and see the house for yourself."
This had been the beginning of a friendship with
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Miss Foxe — sl friendship which Mrs. Sadler was not
quite 'sure about/ as she would have said herself,
but which she permitted, because she was rather flat-
tered that * a real lady,' who had persistently refused
the acquaintance of everyone in Hindcup should elect
to make friends with her daughter.
Miss Foxe was a very eccentric woman, and if Mrs.
Sadler had heard many of the things she said to
Miriam there would have been a speedy end of the
friendship. But the girl knew too well to mention
any of these sayings before her mother. Miss Foxe
was always urging the girl to emancipate herself in
one direction or another ; to leave home ; to stop going
to chapel ; to have nothing to do with her cousins, if
they were tiresome — counsels which Miriam had never
acted upon, but which sunk into her mind none the less.
Miss Foxe was particularly vigorous in her denun-
ciations of Miriam's cousins :
" From your accounts of them, they seem to be quite
impossible people ; the sooner you break off from them
the better. This tyranny of blood which exists in
England is intolerable. Why should one consort with
fools because they happen to have had the same gfrand-
father as one's self? I do not see it."
Miriam had certainly been blessed with a goodly
array of cousins. The Pillars seemed to populate half
Hindcup; ramifications of the connection stretched
everywhere. They were a strong, self-assertive, suc-
cessful race. The men made their way in the world,
got good situations, and earned money; the women,
were handsome and married well. It was traditional
with them to do this ; and if, as was sometimes neces-
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sarily the case, one of them happened to make a less
successful matrimonial venture than her cousins, it was
also traditional with the family to deny the unsuccess
so strongly that the outside world in time came to take
the match at their valuation. " It would never do/'
as they said, " to do anything else " ; they liked that
it should be acknowledged on all sides that " the Pil-
lars married well."
It would be weariness itself to enumerate all Mir-
iam's cousins; but the more important members of
the connection bulked so largely in her life that you
must know who and what they were.
Timothy Pillar, the eldest unmarried male cousin,
was quite a feature of Hindcup society. He was a
stout, high-colored young man, a " traveler " for table
glass, and getting on well in his calling. He and
Miriam were always at war — ^not openly, but perhaps
all the more savagely for that very reason. She could
not abide the horrid jokes on matrimony that he fired
off at her whenever they met. Poor Timothy only
meant to be pleasant and amusing; but Miriam did not
see his jokes in this light. She did not get on very
much better with his sister Maggie, the eldest married
Pillar. Maggie was a buxom young woman, who had
done her duty early in life by marrying the most ris-
ing lawyer in Hindcup. That was some ten years ago,
and she had now a comfortable establishment, and
a numerous and healthy progeny. She saw nothing
beyond her house, her husband, and her children —
nor ever would.
The second sister, Matilda, had not married quite
so well — her husband was only a bank clerk ; but the
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other members of the family had bolstered up his po-
sition to the outside world till James Marsden ap-
peared more in the light of a bank director than any-
thing else.
Two sisters still remained in the parental nest —
Grace, who was undeniably getting elderly, and yet
whom no one seemed to wish to marry, and Emmie,
the youngest of the sisters, a pretty, fresh-complex-
ioned girl, who spent her life in trimming hats for her-
self, and giggling over what she called her "ad-
mirers/' Hindcup had not yet given up hope of seeing
Grace Pillar led to the altar, and as tales of Emmie's
conquests formed the major part of her married sis-
ters' conversation, the townspeople only waited to see
what her choice would be.
Miriam, on her return from Miss Cumper's School
at Goodhampton, had naturally been expected to see
a great deal of her cousins. But before very long her
object in life was to see as little of them as possible.
She did not care to hear about Emmie's love affairs,
she did not mind whether Grace married or did not
marry, she took no interest in Maggie Broadman's
house, husband, or children, and cared less than noth-
ing whether James Marsden got a raise of salary, and
enabled Matilda to keep a second servant. This was
all, no doubt, very unamiable in Miriam ; but thus she
was made. The Pillars, in their turn, held her in the
utmost contempt ; she had no love affairs, " nor was
like to have," as they said, and she was always saying
queer things they did not understand. Because she
was one of their family, however, the married Pillars
(for a Pillar always seemed to remain a Pillar, some-
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how) asked her to their houses; but it was only on
sufferance, and they had little to say to her when she
came. So relations were somewhat strained all round,
and Maggie Broadman would say in a pitying way :
" If only some man would take a fancy to Miriam
and marry her, I'm sure it would be a good thing;
but there, it's not likely, I'm afraid ; not that I would
say so out of the family , it might be bad for Emmie
and Grace. Nothing spoils a girl's chances like being
thought to belong to a family that don't marry easily."
So, with a family loyalty that was positively noble,
Mrs. Broadman would describe Miriam's unmarried
state in far other terms to the outside world.
"You see, she is very particular," she would say,
laughing, and shaking her head.
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CHAPTER V
The well-married young Pillars confessed to each
other (but never, never to outsiders) that their Aunt
Pillar's position as housekeeper at Hindcup Manor
was a trial to them. It was impossible to ignore the
fact that powerful as her sway was at the Manor, she
herself was a servant, albeit an upper one. By a sort
of tacit consent, they never invited Aunt Pillar to
their houses when they had company; but sometimes
they allowed themselves an afternoon of fearful joy.
One of the sisters would invite Aunt Pillar to her
house on a day when no one else was likely to be there,
and then (the other sisters assembling by prearrange-
ment), in the seclusion of their dining room, they gos-
siped freely with her over the great people at the
Manor — their doings, their visitors, their dresses.
With her nieces Aunt Pillar had positively no re-
serves; she would descend to the most petty detail
imaginable — ^which of the ladies wore false hair;
whether this one disposed of her old dresses, or gave
them to her maid ; whether that one gave out as many
garments to be washed as another. All was grist to
the mill of gossip; and sitting round the little dining
table, elbows on board, the young women feasted on
the scraps of information as eagerly as hounds on
meat.
One afternoon, a few days after Miriam's meeting
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with Alan Gore in the fields, Mrs. Marsden (n6c Ma-
tilda Pillar) had resolved upon one of these family
gatherings.
Matilda had not quite such genteel visitors as her
sister Maggie Broadman, so it was generally consid-
ered safer for her to be the hostess on these occa-
sions when Aunt Pillar came to tea. Matilda (like all
her sisters) was an excellent housekeeper, and the
little party expected a delicious meal.
Aunt Pillar came in much heated from her walk up
the street.
** Though I drove to the station in one of the car-
riages, my dears, and only walked up here," she ex-
plained. She untied her bonnet strings at once, on
sitting down, and removed her black silk mantle,
which Matilda took from her and carefully laid across
the back of a chair.
" It's very kind of you to have made the exertion
of coming over here in this heat," said Maggie Broad-
man, supplying her aunt with a footstool.
" Well, this is a very busy time at the Manor, of
course, I won't deny; what with visitors coming and
visitors going every hour of the day. But to be frank
with you, my dears, I've something to tell you all,"
said Aunt Pillar. She took out her handkerchief and
wiped her face all over, and seemed refreshed by the
process. The four sisters drew nearer ; Matilda only,
in her capacity of hostess, suggested that this interest-
ing bit of news should be delayed till they had had tea.
" It was just coming," she said.
Aunt Pillar knew too well what a good cup of tea
was, to suggest that it should be delayed.
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"You're right, Mattie," she said. "Tea is never
the better for being overdrawn. Let us have it now.
I'm in need of it ; really, with the indoor life I lead, the
least exertion out of doors throws me into such a per-
spiration." She had recourse again to her musk-
scented handkerchief. Matilda hastened the tea, and
after a good deal of quiet fussing they all got seated
round the table and were supplied with brimming,
steaming cups of tea.
Aunt Pillar took a taste of hers in a spoon.
" We couldn't do better than this at the Manor,
Mattie," she said ; " but I think I gave you the address
of our tea merchant — ^he's very reliable."
" Yes, aunt ; I always get five pounds of the black
and one of Pekoe," Matilda began ; but the other sisters
broke in upon the housewifely talk, demanding to hear
what the news might be.
" Well," Aunt Pillar began, looking all round the
table to collect her audience, and have them well in
hand before she got into her story — " well, it's Miriam
Sadler again ; I don't know what that girl's going to
turn into at all."
There was a shout all round the table of, " She's
going to be married ! She's engaged ! "
But Aunt Pillar smiled and shook her head.
" No, indeed ; Miriam is little likely to do anything
so sensible; but I must begin as far back as Sunday
last. You'll remember it was a very hot day for the
time of year. I had had a very busy morning see-
ing about the cold luncheon they had upstairs (I'll
tell you all about it afterwards, Mattie — ^two entrees in
aspic, and the lobster went high at the last minute, and
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cook nearly in a fit with the heat, couldn't get her as-
pics to set) ; well, after all was over " (it is noticeable
that Aunt Pillar always mentioned a meal in the same
terms that other people employ for a more solemn