incapable of imagining spiritual wants in others that could not be
satisfied by what satisfied herself. And this pathetic strength she had
in common with many of her fellow creatures in every class. Sitting down
at the writing-table from which she had been disturbed, she leaned her
thin, rather long, gentle, but stubborn face on her hand, thinking.
These Gaunts were a source of irritation in the parish, a kind of open
sore. It would be better if they could be got rid of before quarter day,
up to which she had weakly said they might remain. Far better for them
to go at once, if it could be arranged. As for the poor fellow Tryst,
thinking that by plunging into sin he could improve his lot and his poor
children's, it was really criminal of those Freelands to encourage him.
She had refrained hitherto from seriously worrying Gerald on such points
of village policy--his hands were so full; but he must now take his
part. And she rang the bell.

"Tell Sir Gerald I'd like to see him, please, as soon as he gets back."

"Sir Gerald has just come in, my lady."

"Now, then!"

Gerald Malloring--an excellent fellow, as could be seen from his face
of strictly Norman architecture, with blue stained-glass windows rather
deep set in--had only one defect: he was not a poet. Not that this would
have seemed to him anything but an advantage, had he been aware of it.
His was one of those high-principled natures who hold that breadth is
synonymous with weakness. It may be said without exaggeration that the
few meetings of his life with those who had a touch of the poet in them
had been exquisitely uncomfortable. Silent, almost taciturn by nature,
he was a great reader of poetry, and seldom went to sleep without having