“Uncle James, if you please. I wanted to tell you I shall be very glad to do anything to help you, if you will allow me.”
“Help me, my dear? Teach me the troy tong, or whatever Ruth calls it?”
“To help you in the parish, uncle.”
“Parish? Ha, ha! Do they have the pretty girls to read prayers in the grand Ritualistic places nowadays?”
“I thought I might perhaps teach some of the children,” faltered poor Virginia through her uncle’s peal of laughter.
“Teach? We don’t have many newfangled notions here, my dear. Do your wool-work, and dance your troy tong, and mind your own business.”
“I have always been accustomed to do something useful,” said Virginia, gaining courage from indignation.
“Now look here, Virginia,” said Parson Seyton emphatically. “Don’t you go putting your finger into a pie you know nothing of. There’s not a cottage in the place fit for a young lady to set her foot in. There’s a vast deal too much of young women’s meddling in these days; and as for Elderthwaite, there’s an old Methody, as they call him, who groans away to the soberer folks, and comforts their hearts in his own fashion. What could a chit of a lass like you do for them? Go and captivate the Frenchman with your round eyes—you’ve a grand pair of them—and give me a kiss.”
Parson Seyton put out his hand and drew her towards him.
“But, uncle,” she stammered, yielding to the kiss in such utter confusion of mind that she hardly knew what she was doing—“But, uncle, do you like that Methodist to—to attract the people?”