Most people must have agreed with Mrs. Raynor that the Confirmation¹ that day was a pretty sight, at least when those slight girlish forms and fair young faces moved in a white rivulet² along the aisles³, and flowed into kneeling semicircles under the light of the great chancel window, softened⁵ by patches of dark old painted glass; and one would think that to look on while a pair of venerable hands pressed such young heads, and a venerable face looked upward for a blessing⁶ on them, would be very likely to make the heart swell⁷ gently, and to moisten the eyes. Yet I remember the eyes seemed very dry in Milby Church that day, notwithstanding that the Bishop⁹ was an old man, and probably venerable (for though he was not an eminent¹⁰ Grecian, he was the brother of a Whig lord); and I think the eyes must have remained dry, because he had small delicate womanish hands adorned¹¹ with ruffles¹², and, instead of laying them on the girls’ heads, just let them hover¹³ over each in quick succession, as if it were not etiquette¹⁴ to touch them, and as if the laying on of hands were like the theatrical¹⁵ embrace—part of the play, and not to be really believed in. To be sure there were a great many heads, and the Bishop’s time was limited. Moreover, a

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