"Curiously enough, there was a clergyman and his wife from your old home, Mrs. Cushion. I wonder if you remember them? A Mr. and Mrs. Robinson."
"I suppose you didn't happen to name me, miss?" Mrs. Cushion asked—I thought a trifle nervously.
"Well, I didn't, but the vicar did."
"Yes, miss, and did Mrs. Robinson seem to remember me?"
"She remembered some one of your name, Mrs. Cushion, but it couldn't have been you—perhaps you have relations in her parish?"
"May I make so bold, miss, as to ask exactly what she did say?"
"That it was a Miss Cushion she knew, who left soon after her husband got the living."
"I dare say she did," said Mrs. Cushion grimly; "and there was many as would have gone, too, if they'd had the chanst. If it's not taking a liberty, miss, was you exactly draw'd to Mrs. Robinson?"
"Certainly not," I replied. "I couldn't get on with her at all. Are they popular in the parish?"
"It's not for me to say, miss. I left two months after they did come. They was new brooms, you see, and swep' away a lot of old customs. They wasn't like the Reverend 'ere—he's all for 'live and let live'—but they was all for making every one live as they thought proper. I don't say they was wrong, and I don't say they was right, but whichever it was, it weren't peaceable.