Moth and Rust; Together with Geoffrey's Wife and The Pitfall

earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, a

to meet the rent at Christmas. But there would hardly be time for moth and rust to get into it before its secluded life should migrate into flitches and pork pies. Not that the poorest of Mr Long's parishioners had any fear of such an event, for they never associated his sermons with anything to do with themselves, e

ey in the bank at Mudbury, for they were to be seen striding in in gaiters on market-day to draw it out. But then it was

t that the text was well chosen, and that it applied e

hildren, and these, of course, were only encumbrances. Had they not proved to be so? For his cousin had promised him the family living, and would cer

ious man, and the conscie

h all his te

to the mi

ortion of the Divine mind not reflected in the clerical mirror would

of one who has coldly appropriated as her due all the good things of life, who has fiercely rebelled against every untoward event, and who now in old age offers a pa

looked at the two girls with deep interest. They had made up their minds

a finished woman of the world, and with the reserved, disciplined manner of a woman accustomed to conceal her feelings from a world in which she has lived too much, in which she ha

and then, catching disjointed sentences with no sense i

on a dove's neck, varying with every movement, every turn of the head. She was quite motionless now, her rather large, ill-gloved hands in her lap. Janet was a still woman. She had no nervous movements. She did not

eyes. But the young girl sitting in the Easthope pew hardly resembled, except in feature, the portrait that, later on, took the artistic world by storm. Janet was perhaps even more beautiful in this her first youth than her picture proved her afterwards to be; but th

uty she would have appeared

yourselves treas

times in the course of his sermon. Janet heard it th

, sleek-haired young man with the sunburnt complexion and the

iry prince who had ridden into her life on a golden chestnut. George Trefusis was heavily built, but in Janet's eyes he was slender. His taciturn dulness was in her eyes a most dignified and becoming reserve. His inveterate unsociability proved to her-not that it needed provi

with her beauty; so heavily that, after a secret but stubborn resistance, he had been vanquished by it. Marry

be her home-the old Tudor house standing among its terraced gardens, which ha