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‘She is not what in common parlance is called a lady,’ said Angel unflinchingly, ‘for she is a cottager’s daughter, as I am proud to say. But she is a lady, nevertheless—in feeling and nature.’

‘Mercy Chant is of a very good family.’

‘Pooh!—what’s the advantage of that, mother?’ said Angel quickly. ‘How is family to avail the wife of a man who has to rough it as I have, and shall have to do?’

‘Mercy is accomplished. And accomplishments have their charm,’ returned his mother, looking at him through her silver spectacles.

‘As to external accomplishments, what will be the use of them in the life I am going to lead?—while as to her reading, I can take that in hand. She’ll be apt pupil enough, as you would say if you knew her. She’s brim full of poetry—actualized poetry, if I may use the expression. She lives what paper-poets only write. … And she is an unimpeachable Christian, I am sure; perhaps of the very tribe, genus, and species you desire to propagate.’

‘O Angel, you are mocking!’

‘Mother, I beg pardon. But as she really does attend Church almost every Sunday morning,