Mamma," exclaimed Miss Denham, as she entered the drawing-room one morning, after rather a lengthened walk, "I have heard something that will surprise and distress you; I can scarcely believe the report, but I have been assured of its truth from the best authority."
"What is it, my dear? you seem agitated, has anything alarmed you?"
"Nothing more, mamma, than this dreadful report; really none of us seem safe; dear Mr. Cole never spoke a greater truth than when he said there was something of a bewitching nature in this new religion! I am alarmed for myself, and almost wish that we were away from this place altogether. But I must tell you the story. Mr. Roscoe has taken to his daughter's religion, and is now as fanatical as herself!"
"I cannot credit this, my dear," replied Mrs. Denham; "you know how often I have said this is the worst place I know for scandal; you should be careful how you receive these reports; no, no, my dear, I cannot believe such a story as this about Mr. Roscoe; he is too good, amiable, and virtuous a man to be led so far wrong, and too much of the gentleman to stoop to anything so mean and vulgar."
"I hope, mamma, it may be so, but I am afraid it is true; and every one is so distressed and affected by the intelligence, I assure you it has produced quite a sensation."
"My dear, it is impossible; I saw him at church on Sunday, and heard him myself repeat the responses louder than he ever did before; and if you recollect, we talked about it when we got home."
"No, mamma; if you recollect, we dined last Sunday with a large party at Mr. Gladstone's, and did not go to church."
"Then it was Sunday week."
"It has happened since then. It happened one night last week; and as I have been at some pains to get at an entire knowledge of this disaster, I will tell you about it."