The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. " "Where are you going?" asked his mother. "He has robbed him. " "Company!" echoed Rachel; "at this time of night?" "Company, child," repeated Kneebone. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years.
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