mad
metaphor had been wriggling and tearing its passage through a thorn-bush
in his discourse, with the furious urgency of a sheep in a panic; but
where the ostensible subject ended and the metaphor commenced, and which
was which at the conclusion, she found it difficult to discern--much as
the sheep would, be when he had left his fleece behind him. She could
now have said, 'Silly old man!'

Dr. Shrapnel appeared most placable. He was gazing at his Authority in
the heavens, tangled among gold clouds and purple; his head bent acutely
on one side, and his eyes upturned in dim speculation. His great feet
planted on their heels faced him, suggesting the stocks; his arms
hung loose. Full many a hero of the alehouse, anciently amenable to
leg-and-foot imprisonment in the grip of the parish, has presented as
respectable an air. His forelock straggled as it willed.

Rosamund rose abruptly as soon as the terminating notes of the Mass had
been struck.

Dr. Shrapnel seemed to be concluding his devotions before he followed
her example.

'There, ma'am, you have a telegraphic system for the soul,' he said. 'It
is harder work to travel from this place to this' (he pointed at ear and
breast) 'than from here to yonder' (a similar indication traversed the
distance between earth and sun). 'Man's aim has hitherto been to
keep men from having a soul for this world: he takes it for something
infernal. He?--I mean, they that hold power. They shudder to think the
conservatism of the earth will be shaken by a change; they dread they
won't get men with souls to fetch and carry, dig, root, mine, for them.
Right!--what then? Digging and mining will be done; so will harping and
singing. But then we have a natural optimacy! Then, on the one hand, we
whip the man-beast and the man-sloth; on the other, we seize that old
fatted iniquity--that tyrant! that tempter! that legitimated swindler
cursed of Christ! that palpable Satan whose name is Capital! by the
neck, and have him disgorging within three gasps of his life. He is the
villain! Let him live, for he too comes of blood and bone. He shall not
grind the faces of the poor and helpless--that's all.'

The comicality of her having such remarks addressed to her provoked a
smile on Rosamund's lips.

'Don't go at him like Samson blind,' said Mr. Lydiard; and Miss Denham,
who had returned, begged her guardian to entreat the guest to stay.

She said in an undertone, 'I am very anxious you should see