the head--when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yard
pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted
person presently made its appearance upstairs. He found Mrs. Patten going
on so well that there was no need to look solemn. He might glide from
condolence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of having Mrs.
Hackit's ear was irresistible.

'What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's,' was
the remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself
back in the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.
'Eh, dear me!' said Mrs. Hackit, 'disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr.
Barton as long as I could, for his wife's sake; but I can't countenance
such goings-on. It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to service
of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think it
wrong to forsake one's own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. There's
a many parish'ners as do.'

'I used to think Barton was only a fool,' observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone
which implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. 'I
thought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first
came. But that's impossible now.'

'O, it's as plain as the nose in your face,' said Mrs. Hackit,
unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison--'comin'
to Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with her
brother, as she called him; and then all on a sudden the brother goes off
with himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could
make her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn't got enough
to keep wife and children, there's One above knows--_I_ don't.'

'Mr. Barton may have attractions we don't know of,' said Mr. Pilgrim, who
piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. 'The Countess has no maid now,
and they say Mr. Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette--laces her
boots, and so forth.'

'Tilette, be fiddled!' said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness of
metaphor; 'an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone
for them children--an' another comin' on. What she must have to go
through! It goes to my heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' the
wrong to let herself be put upon i' that manner.'

'Ah! I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other day. She said,
"I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n".' (Mr. Pilgrim gave
this quotation with