talked in this fashion.  He was for ever insisting on the aimlessness of modern life, on the powerlessness of its vague activities to mould men into anything good, to restrain them from evil or moderate their passions, and he was possessed by a vision of a new Christianity which was to take the place of the old and dead theologies.  I have reported him in my own language.  He strove as much as he could to make his meaning plain to everybody.  Just before he finished, three or four out of the half-a-dozen outsiders who were present whistled with all their might and ran down the stairs shouting to one another.  As we went out they had collected about the door, and amused themselves by pushing one another against us, and kicking an old kettle behind us and amongst us all the way up the street, so that we were covered with splashes.  Mrs. M’Kay went with us, and when we reached home, she tried to say something about what she had heard.  The cloud came over her husband’s face at once; he remained silent for a minute, and getting up and going to the window, observed that it ought to be cleaned, and that he could hardly see the opposite house.  The poor woman looked distressed, and I was just about to come to her rescue by continuing what she had been saying, when she rose, not in anger, but in trouble, and went upstairs.

CHAPTER III—­MISS LEROY

During the great French war there were many French prisoners in my native town.  They led a strange isolated life, for they knew nothing of our language, nor, in those days, did three people in the town understand theirs.  The common soldiers amused themselves by making little trifles and selling them.  I have now before me a box of coloured straw with the date 1799 on the bottom, which was bought by my grandfather.  One of these prisoners was an officer named Leroy.  Why he did not go back to France I never heard, but I know that before I was born he was living near our house on a small income; that he tried to teach French, and that he had as his companion a handsome daughter who grew up speaking English.  What she was like when she was young I cannot say, but I have had her described to me over and over again.  She had rather darkish brown hair, and she was tall and straight as an arrow.  This she was, by the way, even into old age.  She surprised, shocked, and attracted all the sober persons in our circle.  Her ways were not their ways.  She would walk out by herself on a starry night without a single companion, and cause thereby infinite talk, which would have converged to a single focus if it had not happened that she was also in the habit of walking out at four o’clock on a summer’s morning, and that in the church porch of a little village not far from us, which was her favourite resting-place, a copy of the De Imitatione Christi was found which belonged to her.  So the talk was scattered again and its convergence prevented.