She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my dress, "lest," as she said, "I should mucky it."

     "Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands," she remarked. "Happen ye've been a dressmaker?"

     "No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't trouble your head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we are."

     "Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House."

     "And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?"

     "Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home, he is in his own parish at Morton."

     "That village a few miles off?

     "Aye."

     "And what is he?"

     "He is a parson."