moment, if all was going right, by her face.
And it did go right for a long time."

"What went wrong at last?" said I.
"That tiresome Latin, I dare say."

"No! it was not the Latin. Peter was in
high favour with my father, for he worked
up well for him. But he seemed to think
that the Cranford people might be joked
about, and made fun of, and they did not like
it; nobody does. He was always hoaxing
them; 'hoaxing' is not a pretty word, my dear,
and I hope you won't tell your father I used
it, for I should not like him to think that I
was not choice in my language, after living
with such a woman as Deborah. And be sure
you never use it yourself. I don't know how
it slipped out of my mouth, except it was that
I was thinking of poor Peter, and it was
always his expression. But he was a very
gentlemanly boy in many things. He was
like dear Captain Brown in always being
ready to help any old person or a child. Still,
he did like joking and making fun; and he
seemed to think the old ladies in Cranford
would believe anything. There were many
old ladies living here then; we are principally
ladies now, I know; but we are not so old as
the ladies used to be when I was a girl. I
could laugh to think of some of Peter's jokes.
No! my dear, I won't tell you of them,
because they might not shock you as they
ought to do; and they were very shocking.
He even took in my father once, by dressing
himself up as a lady who was passing through
the town and wished to see the Rector of
Cranford, 'who had published that admirable
Assize Sermon.' Peter said, he was awfully
frightened himself when he saw how my
father took it all in, and even offered to copy
out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for
her—him, I mean no, her, for Peter was a
lady then. He told me he was more terrified
than he ever was before, all the time my
father was speaking. He did not think my
father would have believed him; and yet if
he had not, it would have been a sad thing
for Peter. As it was, he was none so glad of
it, for my father kept him hard at work copying
out all those twelve Buonaparte sermons
for the lady—that was for Peter himself, you
know. He was the lady. And once when
he wanted to go fishing, Peter said, 'Confound
the woman!'— very bad language, my dear;
but Peter was not always so guarded as he
should have been; but my father was so
angry with him, it nearly frightened me out
of my wits; and yet I could hardly keep from
laughing at the little curtsies Peter kept
making, quite slyly, whenever my father
spoke of the lady's excellent taste and sound
discrimination."

"Did Miss Jenkyns know of these tricks?"
said I.

"Oh no! Deborah would have been too
much shocked. No! no one knew but I.
I wish I had always known of Peter's plans;
but sometimes he did not tell me. He used
to say the old ladies in the town wanted
something to talk about; but I don't think
they did. They had the St. James's Chronicle
three times a-week, just as we have now,
the very same advantages we have, and we
have plenty to say; and I remember the
clacking noise there always was when some
of the ladies got together. But, probably,
school-boys talk more than ladies. At last
there was a terrible sad thing happened."
Miss Matey got up, went to the door, and
opened it; no one was there. She rang the
bell for Martha; and when Martha came, her
mistress told her to go for eggs to a farm at
the other end of the town.

"I will lock the door after you, Martha.
You are not afraid to go, are you?"

"No, Ma'am, not at all; Jem Hearn will
be only too proud to go with me."

Miss Matey drew herself up, and, as soon
as we were alone, she wished that Martha
had more maidenly reserve.

"We 'll put out the candle, my dear. We
can talk just as well by fire-light, you know.
There! well! you see, Deborah had gone
from home for a fortnight or so; it was a
very still quiet day, I remember, overhead;
and the lilacs were all in flower, so I suppose
it was spring. My father had gone out to
see some sick people in the parish; I recollect
seeing him leave the house, with his wig and
shovel-hat, and cane. What possessed our
poor Peter. I don't know; he had the sweetest
temper, and yet he always seemed to like
to plague Deborah. She never laughed at
his jokes, and thought him ungenteel, and
not careful enough about improving his
mind; and that vexed him."

"Well! he went to her room, it seems, and
dressed himself in her old gown, and shawl,
and bonnet; just the things she used to wear
in Cranford, and was known by everywhere;
and he made the pillow into a little—you are
sure you locked the door, my dear, for I should
not like any one to hear—into—into—a little
baby, with white long clothes. It was only,
as he told me afterwards, to make something
to talk about in the town: he never thought
of it as affecting Deborah. And he went and
walked up and down in the Filbert walk, just
half hidden by the rails, and half seen; and
he cuddled his pillow, just like a baby; and
talked to it all the nonsense people do. Oh
dear! and my father came stepping stately
up the street, as he always did; and what
should he see but a little black crowd of
people—I dare say as many as twenty—all
peeping through his garden rails. So he
thought, at first, they were only looking at a
new rhododendron that was in full bloom, and
that he was very proud of; and he walked
slower, that they might have more time to
admire. And he wondered if he could make
out a sermon from the occasion, and thought,
perhaps, there was some relation between the
rhododendrons and the lilies of the field. My
poor father! When he came nearer, he