ould have buried a Titaness under
a Pelion of moral feather-beds. Mass upon mass of downy influence
descended upon you, seemingly yielding as it fell, enveloping,
overbearing, stifling you; not presenting a single hard point
of contact; giving in as you pushed against it; supplying itself
seductively round you, softer and softer, heavier and heavier,--till,
I assure you, ma'am, no matter how high your natural wifely spirit,
you would have had it smothered out of you, your last rebellious murmur
dying languidly away under the descending fleeces.

"So kind in you to come with me, Mary," said Hartopp. "I could not have
been happy without your approval: look at the child; something about her
like Mary Anne, and Mary Anne is the picture of you!"

Waife advanced, uncovering; the two children, having lost trace of the
butterfly, had run up towards Sophy. But her shy look made themselves
shy,--shyness is so contagious, and they stood a little aloof, gazing at
her. Sir Isaac stalked direct to the Mayor, sniffed at him, and wagged
his tail.

Mrs. Hartopp now bent over Sophy, and acknowledging that the face was
singularly pretty, glanced graciously towards the husband, and said, "I
see the likeness!" then to Sophy, "I fear you are tired, my dear: you
must not overfatigue yourself; and you must take milk fresh from the
cow every morning." And now the bailiff's wife came briskly out, a tidy,
fresh-coloured, kind-faced woman, fond of children; the more so because
she had none of her own.

So they entered the farm-yard, Mrs. Hartopp being the chief talker;
and she, having pointed out to Sophy the cows and the turkeys, the
hen-coops, and the great China gander, led her by the one hand--while
Sophy's other hand clung firmly to Waife's'--across the little garden,
with its patent bee-hives, into the house, took off her bonnet, and
kissed her. "Very like Mary Anne!--Mary Anne, dear." One of the two
children owning that name approached,--snub-nosed, black-eyed, with
cheeks like peonies. "This little girl, my Mary Anne, was as pale as
you,--over-study; and now, my dear child, you must try and steal a
little of her colour. Don't you think my Mary Anne is like her papa, Mr.
Chapman?"

"Like me!" exclaimed the Mayor, whispering Waife, "image of her mother!
the same intellectual look!"

Said the artful actor, "Indeed, ma'am, the young lady has her father's
mouth and eyebrows, but that acute, sensible expression is yours,--quite
yours. Si