She is lingering behind to shake hands with the curate, and ask all the poor old people after their diseases.

_I_ never can recollect clearly _who_ has _what_.

I always apportion the rheumatism wrongly, but _she_ never does.

There she stands just by the church-gate, with the little sunny lights running up and down upon her snow-white gown, shaking each grimy old hand with a kind and friendly equality.
The day rolls by; afternoon service; walk round the grounds; early dinner (we always embitter our lives on Sundays by dining at _six_, which does the servants no good, and sours the tempers of the whole family); then prayers.

Prayers are always immediately followed by that light refection which we call supper.
As the time approaches, my heart sinks imperceptibly lower in my system than the place where it usually resides.
"Be ready, Sister Nancy, For the time is drawing nigh," says Algy, solemnly, putting his arm round my shoulders, as, the prayer-bell having rung, we set off for the wonted justicing-room.
"Have a pull at my flask," suggests Bobby, seriously; "there is some cognac left in it since the day we fished the pool.