The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, remarkably refined or
witty; but if it had been, it could hardly have taken place in Milby when
Mr. Dempster flourished there, and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet
alive.
More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, and in the
interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as other market-towns in
her Majesty's dominions. By this time it has a handsome railway station,
where the drowsy London traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-light
and see perfectly sober papas and husbands alighting with their
leatherbags after transacting their day's business at the county town.
There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of his hearers
with all the immense advantages of a divine who keeps his own carr
