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Hesba Stretton

home before midnight. He had been less manageable since Mr.
Chantrey went away.
She could not bear to think of Mrs. Chantrey falling into the same sin.
The delicate, pretty, refined young lady degrading herself to the level of
the poor drunken wretch she called her brother! Ann Holland could not
and would not believe it; it seemed too monstrous a scandal to deserve

a moment's anxiety. Yet when she went back into her lonely kitchen,
her eyes were dim with tears, partly for her brother and partly for
Sophy Chantrey.
CHAPTER III.
WHAT WAS HER DUTY?
Ann Holland was a great favorite with Mrs, Bolton. The elderly,
old-fashioned woman held firmly to all old-fashioned ways; knew her
duty to God and her duty to her neighbor, as taught by the Church
Catechism, and faithfully fulfilled them to the best of her power. She
ordered herself lowly and reverently to all her betters, especially to the
widow of an archdeacon. No new-fangled, radical notions, such as her
drunken brother picked up, could find any encouragement from her.
Mrs. Bolton always enjoyed an interview with her, so marked was her
deference. She had occasionally condescended to visit Ann Holland in
her kitchen, and sit on the projecting angle of the three-cornered chair,
a favor duly appreciated by her delighted hostess. Mr. Chantrey ran in
often, as he was passing by, partly because he felt a real friendship, for
the true-hearted, struggling old maid, and partly to see after her
good-for-nothing brother. As Ann Holland had said herself, she was
ready to go through fire and water for the sake of these friends and
patrons of hers, whose kindness was the brightest element in her life.
After much tearful deliberation, she received upon the daring step of
going to Bolton Villa, on an errand to Mrs. Bolton, with a vague hope
that she might discover how false this cruel scandal was. There was a
bridle of Mrs. Bolton's in the shop, which had been sent for a new curb,
and she would take it home herself. Early the next afternoon, therefore.
she clad herself in her best Sunday clothes, and made her way slowly
along the streets toward the church. It was but slowly for she rarely
went out on a week day, when her neighbors' shops were open; and
there were too many attractions in the windows for even her anxiety
and consciousness of a solemn mission to resist altogether.
The church and the rectory looked so peaceful amid the trees, just

tinged with the hues of autumn, that Ann Holland's spirits insensibly
revived. There was little sign of life about the rectory, for no one was
living in it at present but Mr. Warden, the clergyman who had taken Mr.
Chantrey's duty. Ann Holland opened the church-yard gate and strolled
pensively up among the graves to the porch, that she might rest a little
and ponder over what she should say to Mrs. Bolton. There was not a
grave there that she did not know; those lying under many of the grassy
sods were as familiar to her as the men and women now in full life in
the neighboring town. Just within sight, near the vestry window was a
little mound covered with flowers, where she had seen a little child of
David and Sophy Chantrey's laid to rest. A narrow path was worn up to
it; more bare and trodden than before Mr. Chantrey had gone away.
Ann Holland knew as well as if she had seen her, that the poor solitary
mother had worn the grass away.
The church door was open; for Mr. Warden had chosen to make the
vestry his study, and had intimated to all the parish that there he might
generally be found if any one among them wished to see him in any
difficulty or sorrow. Though this was well known, no one of Mr.
Chantrey's parishioners had gone to him for counsel; for he was a grave,
stern, silent man, whose opinion it was difficult to guess at and
impossible to fathom. He was unmarried, and kept no servant, except
the housekeeper who had been left in charge of the rectory. All society
he avoided, especially that of women. His abruptness and shyness in
their presence was painful both to himself and them. To Mrs. Bolton,
however, he was studiously civil, and to Sophy, his friend's wife, he
would gladly have shown kindness and sympathy, if he had only
known how. He often watched her tracing the narrow footworn track to
her baby's grave, and he longed to speak some friendly words of
comfort to her, but none came to his mind when they encountered each
other. No one in Upton, except Ann Holland, had seen, as he had, how
thin and wan
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