g sense that the clergyman needed their material
aid, than that they needed his spiritual aid,--not the best state of
things in this age and country, where faith in men solely on the ground
of their spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especially
unfavourable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spiritual gifts
would not have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith.

But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any attention to her
friends all this time? To be sure she did. She was indefatigable in
visiting her 'sweet Milly', and sitting with her for hours together. It
may seem remarkable to you that she neither thought of taking away any of
the children, nor of providing for any of Milly's probable wants; but
ladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot be expected to
surmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau-de-Cologne on
Mrs. Barton's pocket-handkerchief, rearranged her pillow and footstool,
kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her own
shoulders, and amused her with stories of the life she had seen abroad.
When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of her
determination not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of her
anxiety to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Milly
thought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charming, and was
very fond of her; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that he
had risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with his
middle-class parishioners in a pastoral and parenthetic manner.

However, as the days brightened, Milly's cheeks and lips brightened too;
and in a few weeks she was almost as active as ever, though watchful eyes
might have seen that activity was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's eyes
were of that kind, and one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been dining
with her for the first time since Milly's illness, she observed to her
husband--'That poor thing's dreadful weak an' delicate; she won't stan'
havin' many more children.

Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his vocation. He had
preached two extemporary sermons every Sunday at the workhouse, where a
room had been fitted up for divine service, pending the alterations in
the church; and had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other
extremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more
extemporary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring-flowers and
p