Work  enough  there  to  keep  your  hands

full,  Ina,
And  see  no  end  to  it.
Ina.
That's  very  bad,
Have  they  no  minister  ?

Dr.  Lome.  '

You  women,  now.
Think  that  a  minister  is  everything,
That  if  you  plant  a  parson  on  a  moor.
He'll   make    an    Eden  of  it,  just  by

dropping
His  texts  and  preachments  to  the  right

and  left —
Well,  yes,  there  is  a  minister,  but  he
Is  twenty  miles  away,  and  might  as  well
Be  twenty  thousand.     They  are  mostly

there
Of  the  old  Roman  way.
Ina.
But  there  will  be  a  priest  then  ?

Dr.  Lome.
Ay,  he  comes  now  and  then,  and  gives
their  souls


A   hasty   wipe   that   leaves   them   as

they  were
Ere  a  week's  over.
Ina.
And  can  you  do  nothing  ?

Dr.  Lornt.
Me,  Ina  !     It  is  hardly  in  my  line
To  cast  out  devils.     They'd  turn  and

preach  at  me.
I  give  the  priest  his  dinner,  and  the

children
Pennies  to  wash  their  faces.
Ina.
Ah,  poor  folk,
With  none  to  care  for  them.
Dr.  Lome.
But  now  you're  coming
Home  with  me,  and  they'll  maybe  do

for  you
What  is  like  sowing  corn  upon  the  rocks
Among  the  whelks  and  limpets,  when

I  try  it.
Ina,  I  can't  say  pretty  things  to  you :
I've  not  a  bit  of  sentiment  in  me.
And   never   had :     I    take    my   stand

on  facts.
And   do   not   blow   my  feelings   into

bubbles
To  see   them   break,  and   break  my

heart  for  them.
But   see,    my   house    is    nothing   but

a  house,
Till  you  shall  make  a  home  of  it —

a  nook
Where  the   old   dog    may  curl  up  in

the  sun,
And  sleep  away  his  age.
Ina.
