'The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them past,
But they shall last.'

Soon after Easter, Claude went to Oxford. He was much missed by his sisters, who wanted him to carve for them at luncheon, to escort them when they rode or walked, to hear their music, talk over their books, advise respecting their drawings, and criticise Lily's verses. A new subject of interest was, however, arising for them in the neighbours who were shortly expected to arrive at Broom Hill, a house which had lately been built in a hamlet about a mile and a half from the New Court.

These new comers were the family of a barrister of the name of Weston, who had taken the house for the sake of his wife, her health having been much injured by her grief at the loss of two daughters in the scarlet fever. Two still remained, a grown-up young lady, and a girl of eleven years old, and the Miss Mohuns learnt with great delight that they should have near neighbours of their own age. They had never had any young companions as young ladies were scarce among their acquaintance, and they had not seen their cousin, Lady Florence Devereux, since they were children.

It was with great satisfaction that Emily and Lilias set out with their father to make the first visit, and they augured well from their first sight of Mrs. Weston and her daughters. Mrs. Weston was alone, her daughters being out walking, and Lily spent the greater part of the visit in silence, though her mind was made up in the first ten minutes, as she told Emily on leaving the house, 'that Miss Weston's tastes were in complete accordance with her own.'

'Rapid judgment,' said Emily. 'Love before first sight. But Mrs. Weston is a very sweet person.'

'And, Emily, did you see the music-book open at "Angels ever bright and fair?" If Miss Weston sings that as I imagine it!'

'How could you see what was in the music-book at the other end of the room? I only saw it was a beautiful piano. And what handsome furniture! it made me doubly ashamed of our faded carpet and chairs, almost as old as the house itself.'

'Emily!' said Lily, in her most earnest tones, 'I would not change one of those dear old chairs for a king's ransom!'

The visit was in a short time returned, and though it was but a formal morning call, Lilias found her bright expectations realised by the sweetness of Alethea Weston's manners, and the next time they met it was a determined thing in her mind that, as Claude would have said, they had sworn an eternal friendship.

She had the pleasure of lionising the two sisters over the Old Court, telling all she knew and all she imagined about the siege, Sir Maurice Mohun, and his faithful servant, Walter Greenwood. 'Miss Weston,' said she in conclusion, 'have you read Old Mortality?'

'Yes,' said Alethea, amused at the question.

'Because they say I am as bad as Lady Margaret about the king's visit.'

'I have not heard the story often enough to think so,' said Miss Weston, 'I will warn you if I do.'

In the meantime Phyllis and Adeline were equally charmed with Marianne, though shocked at her ignorance of country manners, and, indeed, Alethea was quite diverted with Lily's pity at the discovery that she had never before been in the country in the spring. 'What,' she cried, 'have you never seen the tufts of red on the hazel, nor the fragrant golden palms, and never heard the blackbird rush twittering out of the hedge, nor the first nightingale's note, nor the nightjar's low chirr, nor the chattering of the rooks? O what a store of sweet memories you have lost! Why, how can you understand the beginning of the Allegro?'

Both the Miss Westons had so much pleasure in making acquaintance with 'these delights,' as quite to compensate for their former ignorance, and soon the New Court rang with their praises. Mr. Mohun thought very highly of the whole family, and rejoiced in such society for his daughters, and they speedily became so well acquainted, that it was the ordinary custom of the Westons to take luncheon at the New Court on Sunday. On her side, however, Alethea Weston felt some reluctance to become intimate with the young ladies of the New Court. She was pleased with Emily's manners, interested by Lily's earnestness and simplicity, and thought Jane a clever and amusing little creature, but even their engaging qualities gave her pain, by reminding her of the sisters she had lost, or by making her think how they would have liked them. A country house and neighbours like these had been the objects of many visions of their childhood, and now all the sweet sights and sounds around her only made her think how she should have enjoyed them a year ago. She felt almost jealous of Marianne's liking for her new friends, lest they should steal her heart from Emma and Lucy; but knowing that these were morbid and unthankful feelings, she struggled against them, and though she missed her sisters even more than when her mother and Marianne were in greater need of her attention, she let no sign of her sorrowful feeling appear, and seeing that Marianne was benefited in health and spirits, by intercourse with young companions, she gave no hint of her disinclination to join in the walks and other amusements of the Miss Mohuns.

She also began to take interest in the poor people. By Mrs. Weston's request, Mr. Devereux had pointed out the families which were most in need of assistance, and Alethea made it her business to find out the best way of helping them. She visited the village school with Lilias, and when requested by her and by the Rector to give her aid in teaching, she did not like to refuse what might be a duty, though she felt very diffident of her powers of instruction. Marianne, like Phyllis and Adeline, became a Sunday scholar, and was catechised with the others in church. Both Mr. Mohun and his nephew thought very highly of the family, and the latter was particularly glad that Lily should have some older person to assist her in those parish matters which he left partly in her charge.

Mr. Devereux had been Rector of Beechcroft about a year and a half, and had hitherto been much liked. His parishioners had known him from a boy, and were interested about him, and though very young, there was something about him that gained their respect. Almost all his plans were going on well, and things were, on the whole, in a satisfactory state, though no one but Lilias expected even Cousin Robert to make a Dreamland of Beechcroft, and there were days when he looked worn and anxious, and the girls suspected that some one was behaving ill.

'Have you a headache, Robert?' asked Emily, a few evenings before Whit-Sunday, 'you have not spoken three words this evening.'

'Not at all, thank you,' said Mr. Devereux, smiling, 'you need not think to make me your victim, now you have no Claude to nurse.'

'Then if it is not bodily, it is mental,' said Lily.

'I am in a difficulty about the christening of Mrs. Naylor's child.'

'Naylor the blacksmith?' said Jane. 'I thought it was high time for it to be christened. It must be six weeks old.'

'Is it not to be on Whit-Sunday?' said Lily, disconsolately.

'Oh no! Mrs. Naylor will not hear of bringing the child on a Sunday, and I could hardly make her think it possible to bring it on Whit- Tuesday.'

'Why did you not insist?' said Lily.

'Perhaps I might, if there was no other holy day at hand, or if there was not another difficulty, a point on which I cannot give way.'

'Oh! the godfathers and godmothers,' said Lily, 'does she want that charming brother of hers, Edward Gage?'

'Yes, and what is worse, Edward Gage's dissenting wife, and Dick Rodd, who shows less sense of religion than any one in the parish, and has never been confirmed.'

'Could you make them hear reason?'

'They were inclined to be rather impertinent,' said Mr. Devereux. 'Old Mrs. Gage--'

'Oh!' interrupted Jane, 'there is no hope for you if the sour Gage is in the pie.'

'The sour Gage told me people were not so particular in her younger days, and perhaps they should not have the child christened at all, since I was such a CONTRARY gentleman. Tom Naylor was not at home, I am to see him to-morrow.'

'Well, I do not think Tom Naylor is as bad as the rest,' said Lily; 'he would have been tolerable, if he had married any one but Martha Gage.'

'Yes, he is an open good-natured fellow, and I have hopes of making an impression on him.'

'If not,' said Lily, 'I hope papa will take away his custom.'

'What?' said Mr. Mohun, who always heard any mention of himself. Mr. Devereux repeated his history, and discussed the matter with his uncle, only once interrupted by an inquiry from Jane about the child's name, a point on which she could gain no intelligence. His report the next day was not decidedly unfavourable, though he scarcely hoped the christening would be so soon as Tuesday. He had not seen the father, and suspected he had purposely kept out of the way.

Jane, disappointed that the baby's name remained a mystery, resolved to set out on a voyage of discovery. Accordingly, as soon as her cousin was gone, she asked Emily if she had not been saying that Ada wanted some more cotton for her sampler.

'Yes,' said Emily, 'but I am not going to walk all the way to Mrs. Appleton's this afternoon.'

'Shall I go?' said Jane. 'Ada, run and fetch your pattern.' Emily and Ada were much obliged by Jane's disinterested offer, and in a quarter of an hour Ada's thoughts and hands were busy in Mrs. Appleton's drawer of many-coloured cotton.

'What a pity this is about Mrs. Naylor's baby,' began Jane.

'It is a sad story indeed, Miss Jane, I am sure it must be grievous to Mr. Devereux,' said Mrs. Appleton. 'Betsy Wall said he had been there three times about it.'

'Ah! we all know that Walls have ears,' said Jane; 'how that Betsy does run about gossiping!'

'Yes, Miss Jane, there she bides all day long at the stile gaping; not a stitch does she do for her mother; I cannot tell what is to be the end of it.'

'And do you know what the child's name is to be, Mrs. Appleton?'

'No, Miss Jane,' answered Mrs. Appleton. 'Betsy did say they talked of naming him after his uncle, Edward Gage, only Mr. Devereux would not let him stand.'

'No,' said Jane. 'Since he married that dissenting wife he never comes near the church; he is too much like the sour Gage, as we call his mother, to be good for much. But, after all, he is not so bad as Dick Rodd, who has never been confirmed, and has never shown any sense of religion in his life.'

'Yes, Miss, Dick Rodd is a sad fellow: did you hear what a row there was at the Mohun Arms last week, Miss Jane?'

'Aye,' said Jane, 'and papa says he shall certainly turn Dick Rodd out of the house as soon as the lease is out, and it is only till next Michaelmas twelve-months.'

'Yes, Miss, as I said to Betsy Wall, it would be more for their interest to behave well.'

'Indeed it would,' said Jane. 'Robert and papa were talking of having their horses shod at Stoney Bridge, if Tom Naylor will be so obstinate, only papa does not like to give Tom up if he can help it, because his father was so good, and Tom would not be half so bad if he had not married one of the Gages.'

'Here is Cousin Robert coming down the lane,' said Ada, who had chosen her cotton, and was gazing from the door. Jane gave a violent start, took a hurried leave of Mrs. Appleton, and set out towards home; she could not avoid meeting her cousin.

'Oh, Jenny! have you been enjoying a gossip with your great ally?' said he.

'We have only been buying pink cotton,' said Ada, whose conscience was clear.

'Ah!' said Mr. Devereux, 'Beechcroft affairs would soon stand still, without those useful people, Mrs. Appleton, Miss Wall, and Miss Jane Mohun,' and he passed on. Jane felt her face colouring, his freedom from suspicion made her feel very guilty, but the matter soon passed out of her mind.

Blithe Whit-Sunday came, the five Miss Mohuns appeared in white frocks, new bonnets were plenty, the white tippets of the children, and the bright shawls of the mothers, made the village look gay; Wat Greenwood stuck a pink between his lips, and the green boughs of hazel and birch decked the dark oak carvings in the church.

And Whit-Monday came. At half-past ten the rude music of the band of the Friendly Society came pealing from the top of the hill, then appeared two tall flags, crowned with guelder roses and peonies, then the great blue drum, the clarionet blown by red-waist-coated and red- faced Mr. Appleton, the three flutes and the triangle, all at their loudest, causing some of the spectators to start, and others to dance. Then behold the whole procession of labourers, in white round frocks, blue ribbons in their hats, and tall blue staves in their hands. In the rear, the confused mob, women and children, cheerful faces and mirthful sounds everywhere. These were hushed as the flags were lowered to pass under the low-roofed gateway of the churchyard, and all was still, except the trampling of feet on the stone floor. Then the service began, the responses were made in full and hearty tones, almost running into a chant, the old 133rd Psalm was sung as loudly and as badly as usual, a very short but very earnest sermon was preached, and forth came the troop again.

Mr. Devereux always dined with the club in a tent, at the top of the hill, but his uncle made him promise to come to a second dinner at the New Court in the evening.

'Robert looks anxious,' said Lily, as she parted with him after the evening service; 'I am afraid something is going wrong.'

'Trust me for finding out what it is,' said Jane.

'No, no, Jenny, do not ask him,' said Lily; 'if he tells us to relieve his mind, I am very glad he should make friends of us, but do not ask. Let us talk of other things to put it out of his head, whatever it may be.'

Jane soon heard more of the cause of the depression of her cousin's spirits than even she had any desire to do. After dinner, the girls were walking in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the evening, when Mr. Devereux came up to her and drew her aside from the rest, telling her that he wished to speak to her.

'Oh!' said Jane, 'when am I to meet you at school again? You never told me which chapter I was to prepare; I cannot think what would become of your examinations if it was not for me, you could not get an answer to one question in three.'

'That was not what I wished to speak to you about,' said Mr. Devereux. 'What had you been saying to Mrs. Appleton when I met you at her door on Saturday?'

The colour rushed into Jane's cheeks, but she replied without hesitation, 'Oh! different things, La pluie et le beau temps, just as usual.'

'Cannot you remember anything more distinctly?'

'I always make a point of forgetting what I talk about,' said Jane, trying to laugh.

'Now, Jane, let me tell you what has happened in the village--as I came down the hill from the club-dinner--'

'Oh,' said Jane, hoping to make a diversion, 'Wat Greenwood came back about a quarter of an hour ago, and he--'

Mr. Devereux proceeded without attending to her, 'As I came down the hill from the club-dinner, old Mrs. Gage came out of Naylor's house, and her daughter with her, in great anger, calling me to account for having spoken of her in a most unbecoming way, calling her the sour Gage, and trying to set the Squire against them.'

'Oh, that abominable chattering woman!' Jane exclaimed; 'and Betsy Wall too, I saw her all alive about something. What a nuisance such people are!'

'In short,' said Mr. Devereux, 'I heard an exaggerated account of all that passed here on the subject the other day. Now, Jane, am I doing you any injustice in thinking that it must have been through you that this history went abroad into the village?'

'Well,' said Jane, 'I am sure you never told us that it was any secret. When a story is openly told to half a dozen people they cannot be expected to keep it to themselves.'

'I spoke uncharitably and incautiously,' said he, 'I am willing to confess, but it is nevertheless my duty to set before you the great matter that this little fire has kindled.'

'Why, it cannot have done any great harm, can it?' asked Jane, the agitation of her voice and laugh betraying that she was not quite so careless as she wished to appear. 'Only the sour Gage will ferment a little.'

'Oh, Jane! I did not expect that you would treat this matter so lightly.'

'But tell me, what harm has it done?' asked she.

'Do you consider it nothing that the poor child should remain unbaptized, that discord should be brought into the parish, that anger should be on the conscience of your neighbour, that he should be driven from the church?'

'Is it as bad as that?' said Jane.

'We do not yet see the full extent of the mischief our idle words may have done,' said Mr. Devereux.

'But it is their own fault, if they will do wrong,' said Jane; 'they ought not to be in a rage, we said nothing but the truth.'

'I wish I was clear of the sin,' said her cousin.

'And after all,' said Jane, 'I cannot see that I was much to blame; I only talked to Mrs. Appleton, as I have done scores of times, and no one minded it. You only laughed at me on Saturday, and papa and Eleanor never scolded me.'

'You cannot say that no one has ever tried to check you,' said the Rector.

'And how was I to know that that mischief-maker would repeat it?' said Jane.

'I do not mean to say,' said Mr. Devereux, 'that you actually committed a greater sin than you may often have done, by talking in a way which you knew would displease your father. I know we are too apt to treat lightly the beginnings of evil, until some sudden sting makes us feel what a serpent we have been fostering. Think this a warning, pray that the evil we dread may be averted; but should it ensue, consider it as a punishment sent in mercy. It will be better for you not to come to school to-morrow; instead of the references you were to have looked out, I had rather you read over in a humble spirit the Epistle of St. James.'

Jane's tears by this time were flowing fast, and finding that she no longer attempted to defend herself, her cousin said no more. He joined the others, and Jane, escaping to her own room, gave way to a passionate fit of crying. Whether her tears were of true sorrow or of anger she could not have told herself; she was still sobbing on her bed when the darkness came on, and her two little sisters came in on their way to bed to wish her good-night.

'Oh, Jane, Jane! what is the matter? have you been naughty?' asked the little girls in great amazement.

'Never mind,' said Jane, shortly; 'good-night,' and she sat up and wiped away her tears. The children still lingered. 'Go away, do,' said she. 'Is Robert gone?'

'No,' said Phyllis, 'he is reading the newspaper.'

Phyllis and Adeline left the room, and Jane walked up and down, considering whether she should venture to go down to tea; perhaps her cousin had waited till the little girls had gone before he spoke to Mr. Mohun, or perhaps her red eyes might cause questions on her troubles; she was still in doubt when Lily opened the door, a lamp in her hand.

'My dear Jenny, are you here? Ada told me you were crying, what is the matter?'

'Then you have not heard?' said Jane.

'Only Robert began just now, "Poor Jenny, she has been the cause of getting us into a very awkward scrape," but then Ada came to tell me about you, and I came away.'

'Yes,' said Jane, angrily, 'he will throw all the blame upon me, when I am sure it was quite as much the fault of that horrible Mrs. Appleton, and papa will be as angry as possible.'

'But what has happened?' asked Lily.

'Oh! that chatterer, that worst of gossipers, has gone and told the Naylors and Mrs. Gage all we said about them the other day.'

'So you told Mrs. Appleton?' said Lily; 'so that was the reason you were so obliging about the marking thread. Oh, Jane, you had better say no more about Mrs. Appleton! And has it done much mischief?'

'Oh! Mrs. Gage "pitched" into Robert, as Wat Greenwood would say, and the christening is off again.'

'Jane, this is frightful,' said Lily; 'I do not wonder that you are unhappy.'

'Well, I daresay it will all come right again,' said Jane; 'there will only be a little delay, papa and Robert will bring them to their senses in time.'

'Suppose the baby was to die,' said Lily.

'Oh, it will not die,' said Jane, 'a great fat healthy thing like that likely to die indeed!'

'I cannot make you out, Jane,' said Lily. 'If I had done such a thing, I do not think I could have a happy minute till it was set right.'

'Well, I told you I was very sorry,' said Jane, 'only I wish they would not all be so hard upon me. Robert owns that he should not have said such things if he did not wish them to be repeated.'

'Does he?' cried Lily. 'How exactly like Robert that is, to own himself in fault when he is obliged to blame others. Jane, how could you hear him say such things and not be overcome with shame? And then to turn it against him! Oh, Jane, I do not think I can talk to you any more.'

'I do not mean to say it was not very good of him,' said Jane.

'Good of him--what a word!' cried Lily. 'Well, good-night, I cannot bear to talk to you now. Shall I say anything for you downstairs?'

'Oh, tell papa and Robert I am very sorry,' said Jane. 'I shall not come down again, you may leave the lamp.'

On her way downstairs in the dark Lilias was led, by the example of her cousin, to reflect that she was not without some share in the mischief that had been done; the words which report imputed to Mr. Devereux were mostly her own or Jane's. There was no want of candour in Lily, and as soon as she entered the drawing-room she went straight up to her father and cousin, and began, 'Poor Jenny is very unhappy; she desired me to tell you how sorry she is. But I really believe that I did the mischief, Robert. It was I who said those foolish things that were repeated as if you had said them. It is a grievous affair, but who could have thought that we were doing so much harm?'

'Perhaps it may not do any,' said Emily. 'The Naylors have a great deal of good about them.'

'They must have more than I suppose, if they can endure what Robert is reported to have said of them,' said Mr. Mohun.

'What did you say, Robert,' said Lily, 'did you not tell them all was said by your foolish young cousins?'

'I agreed with you too much to venture on contradicting the report; you know I could not even deny having called Mrs. Gage by that name.'

'Oh, if I could do anything to mend it!' cried Lily.

But wishes had no effect. Lilias and Jane had to mourn over the full extent of harm done by hasty words. After the more respectable men had left the Mohun Arms on the evening of Whit-Monday, the rest gave way to unrestrained drunkenness, not so much out of reckless self- indulgence, as to defy the clergyman and the squire. They came to the front of the parsonage, yelled and groaned for some time, and ended by breaking down the gate.

This conduct was repeated on Tuesday, and on many Saturdays following; some young trees in the churchyard were cut, and abuse of the parson written on the walls the idle young men taking this opportunity to revenge their own quarrels, caused by Mr. Devereux's former efforts for their reformation.

On Sunday several children were absent from school; all those belonging to Farmer Gage's labourers were taken away, and one man was turned off by the farmers for refusing to remove his child.

Now that the war was carried on so openly, Mr. Mohun considered it his duty to withdraw his custom from one who chose to set his pastor at defiance. He went to the forge, and had a long conversation with the blacksmith, but though he was listened to with respect, it was not easy to make much impression on an ignorant, hot-tempered man, who had been greatly offended, and prided himself on showing that he would support the quarrel of his wife and her relations against both squire and parson; and though Mr. Mohun did persuade him to own that it was wrong to be at war with the clergyman, the effect of his arguments was soon done away with by the Gages, and no ground was gained.

Mr. Gage's farm was unhappily at no great distance from a dissenting chapel and school, in the adjoining parish of Stoney Bridge, and thither the farmer and blacksmith betook themselves, with many of the cottagers of Broom Hill.

One alone of the family of Tom Naylor refused to join him in his dissent, and that was his sister, Mrs. Eden, a widow, with one little girl about seven years old, who, though in great measure dependent upon him for subsistence, knew her duty too well to desert the church, or to take her child from school, and continued her even course, toiling hard for bread, and uncomplaining, though often munch distressed. All the rest of the parish who were not immediately under Mr. Mohun's influence were in a sad state of confusion.

Jane was grieved at heart, but would not confess it, and Lilias was so restless and unhappy, that Emily was quite weary of her lamentations. Her best comforter was Miss Weston, who patiently listened to her, sighed with her over the evident sorrow of the Rector, and the mischief in the parish, and proved herself a true friend, by never attempting to extenuate her fault.