“Do you not think, uncle, that Protestants should be as strict regarding personal holiness as Catholics?”
“Nay, I know nowt about it, dearie. I wish women were a’ like thee, though. They’d be a deal better to live wi’. I like religion in a woman, it’s a varry reliable thing. I wish Antony hed hed his senses about him, and got thee to wed him. Eh! but I would have been a happy father!”
“Uncle, dear—you see—I love somebody else.”
“Well I nivver! Thee! Why thou’s too young! When did ta begin to think o’ loving any body?”
“When I was a little girl John Millard and I loved each other. I don’t know when I began to love him, I always loved him.”
“What is ta talking about? Such nonsense!”
“Love is not nonsense, uncle. You remember the old English song you like so much:
“‘O ‘tis love, ‘tis love, ‘tis love
That makes the world go round’”
“Now be quiet wi’ thee. It’s nowt o’ t’ sort. Songs and real life are varry different things. If ta comes o real life, it’s money, and not love; t’ world would varry soon stick without a bit o’ money.”
About the middle of January Richard returned to Hallam. The Bishop was with friends in Liverpool, but he wished to sail immediately, and Richard thought it best to sail with him. Phyllis was willing to go. She had had a charming visit, but she had many duties and friends on the other side, and her heart, also, was there. As for danger or discomfort in a winter passage, she did not think it worth consideration. Some discomfort there must be; and if storm, or even death came, she was as near to heaven by sea as by land.