“Why,” saith she, “I’m with Paul: and he’s good company enough for me, though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he’d scarce be meet for Dr Meade. I thought we’d done with bishops and priests and such like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear! they’re a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and cassocks! and them square caps,—they’re uncommon like the Beast! I make no count of ’em.”
“And rochets can fly!” cries Edith merrily.
“Why, Cousin Bess,” said I, “you shall be a Brownist in a week or twain.”
“Nay, I’ll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it pinches,” saith she.
So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk were o’er.
Selwick Hall, November ye xix.
I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the world that Nell nor Edith should read this last fortnight. Yester even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my Protection outside the garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I to vex Father and Mother that this I did deny, though I could see it vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. ’Tis rare fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not wring a fashion of consent out of Father, without his knowing the same: so when none was there but he and I and Moses, quoth I—
“Father, is it ever wrong to love any?”
“‘Love is of God,’” he made answer. “Surely no.”
And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had Father’s assent to the loving of my Protection: but as ill luck would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with the door in his hand, to say—