ker; there is nothing he likes better; and some of that
beautiful honey Mrs. Bounder has brought us; I never saw such rich
honey, I think. And I have good hope papa will be pleased, and put up
with things, as I do.'

'Your papa remembers Gainsborough Manor, mum, and that's what you
don't.'

'What then! Mrs. Barker, do you really think the Lord does _not_ know
what is good for us? That is sheer unbelief. Take what He gives, and be
thankful. Barker, why do you suppose the angels came to the sepulchre
so, as they did the morning of the resurrection?'

'Mum!' said Mrs. Barker, quite taken aback by this sudden change of
subject. But Esther went on in a pleasant, pleased tone of interest.

'I was reading the last chapter of Matthew this morning, and it set me
to thinking. You know a number of them, the angels, came, and were seen
about the sepulchre; and I suppose there was just a crowd of them
coming and going that morning. What for, do you suppose?'

'Miss Esther!' said the housekeeper open-mouthed, 'I'm sure I can't
say.'

'Why, they came _to see the place_, Barker; just for that. They knew
what had been done, and they just came in crowds, as soon as Jesus had
left the sepulchre--perhaps before--to look at the spot where that
wonder of all wonders had been. But it never occurred to me before how
like it was to the way we human creatures feel and do. _That_ was what
they came for; and don't you remember what one of them, with his
lightning face and his robes of whiteness, sitting on the stone, said
to the women? He told them to do what he had been doing. "_Come see the
place_." It brought the angels nearer to me than ever they had seemed
to be before.'

Mrs. Barker stood there spellbound, silenced. To be sure, if Miss
Esther's head was so busy with the angels, she was in a sort lifted up
above the small matters or accidents of common earthly life. And as
much as the words the girl's face awed her too, its expression was so
consonant with them.

'Now, Barker, Christopher may bring up some coal and make a fire before
he drives back for papa. In both rooms, Barker. And-- Hark! what is
that?'

A long-drawn, musical cry was sounding a little distance off, slowly
coming nearer as it was repeated. A cry that New York never hears now,
but that used to come through the streets in the evening with a
sonorous, half melancholy intonation, pleasant to hear.

'Oys----ters!----Oys----ters! Here's your fresh oys----ters!'

'