Farmer Brattle, who was a stout man about thirty-eight years of age but looking as though he were nearly ten years older, came up to the Vicar, touching his hat, and then putting his hand out in greeting.

“This be a pleasure something like, Muster Fenwick, to see thee here at Startup. This be my wife. Molly, thou has never seen Muster Fenwick from Bull’umpton. This be our Vicar, as mother and Fanny says is the pick of all the parsons in Wiltshire.”

Then Mr. Fenwick got down, and walked into the spacious kitchen, where he was cordially welcomed by the stout mistress of Startup Farm.

He was very anxious to begin his story to the brother alone. Indeed, as to that, his mind was quite made up; but Mrs. Brattle, who within the doors of that house held a position at any rate equal to that of her husband, did not seem disposed to give him the opportunity. She understood well enough that Mr. Fenwick had not come over from Bullhampton to shake hands with her husband, and to say a few civil words. He must have business, and that business must be about the Brattle family. Old Brattle was supposed to be in money difficulties, and was not this an embassy in search of money? Now Mrs. George Brattle, who had been born a Huggins, was very desirous that none of the Huggins money should be sent into the parish of Bullhampton. When, therefore, Mr. Fenwick asked the farmer to step out with him for a moment, Mrs. George Brattle looked very grave, and took her husband apart and whispered a word of caution into his ear.

“It’s about the mill, George; and don’t you do nothing till you’ve spoke to me.”

Then there came a solid look, almost of grief, upon George’s face. There had been a word or two before this between him and the wife of his bosom as to the affairs of the mill.

“I’ve just been seeing somebody at Salisbury,” began the Vicar, abruptly, as soon as they had crossed from the yard behind the house into the enclosure around the ricks.

“Some one at Salisbury, Muster Fenwick? Is it any one as I knows?”

“One that you did know well, Mr. Brattle. I’ve seen your sister Carry.” Again there came upon the farmer’s face that heavy look, which was almost a look of grief; but he did not at once utter a word. “Poor young thing!” continued the Vicar. “Poor, dear, unfortunate girl!”

“She brought it on herself, and on all of us,” said the farmer.

“Yes, indeed, my friend. The light, unguarded folly of a moment has ruined her, and brought dreadful sorrow upon you all. But something should be done for her;—eh?”

Still the brother said nothing.

“You will help, I’m sure, to rescue her from the infamy into which she must fall if none help her?”

“If there’s money wanted to get her into any of them places—,” begun the farmer.

“It isn’t that;—it isn’t that, at any rate, as yet.”

“What be it, then?”

“The personal countenance and friendship of some friend that loves her. You love your sister, Mr. Brattle?”

“I don’t know as I does, Muster Fenwick.”

“You used to, and you must still pity her.”

“She’s been and well-nigh broke the hearts of all on us. There wasn’t one of us as wasn’t respectable, till she come up;—and now there’s Sam. But a boy as is bad ain’t never so bad as a girl.”

It must be understood that in the expression of this opinion Mr. Brattle was alluding, not to the personal wickedness of the wicked of the two sexes, but to the effect of their wickedness on those belonging to them.

“And therefore more should be done to help a girl.”

“I’ll stand the money, Muster Fenwick,—if it ain’t much.”

“What is wanted is a home in your own house.”

“Here—at Startup?”

“Yes; here, at Startup. Your father will not take her.”

“Neither won’t I. But it ain’t me in such a matter as this. You ask my missus, and see what she’ll say. Besides, Muster Fenwick, it’s clean out of all reason.”

“Out of all reason to help a sister?”

“So it be. Sister, indeed! Why did she go and make—. I won’t say what she’s made of herself. Ain’t she brought trouble and sorrow enough upon us? Have her here! Why, I’m that angry with her, I shouldn’t be keeping my hands off her. Why didn’t she keep herself to herself, and not disgrace the whole family?”

Nevertheless, in spite of these strong expressions of opinion, Mr. Fenwick, by the dint of the bitter words which he spoke in reference to the brother’s duty as a Christian, did get leave from the farmer to make the proposition to Mrs. George Brattle,—such permission as would have bound the brother to accept Carry, providing that Mrs. George would also consent to accept her. But even this permission was accompanied by an assurance that it would not have been given had he not felt perfectly convinced that his wife would not listen for a moment to the scheme. He spoke of his wife almost with awe, when Mr. Fenwick left him to make this second attack. “She has never had nothing to say to none sich as that,” said the farmer, shaking his head, as he alluded both to his wife and to his sister; “and I ain’t sure as she’ll be first-rate civil to any one as mentions sich in her hearing.”

But Mr. Fenwick persevered, in spite even of this caution. When the Vicar re-entered the house, Mrs. George Brattle had retired to her parlour, and the kitchen was in the hands of the maid-servant. He followed the lady, however, and found that she had been at the trouble, since he had seen her last, of putting on a clean cap on his behalf. He began at once, jumping again into the middle of things by a reference to her husband.

“Mrs. Brattle,” he said, “your husband and I have been talking about his poor sister Carry.”

“The least said the soonest mended about that one, I’m afeared,” said the dame.

“Indeed, I agree with you. Were she once placed in safe and kind hands, the less then said the better. She has left the life she was leading—”

“They never leaves it,” said the dame.

“It is so seldom that an opportunity is given them. Poor Carry is at the p............