" he demurely observed, adding with conscious
virtue, "I never tear my clothes."

"You've made a pretty hole in your manners, my master," replied his
mother. "Nicholas, what thinkest a lad to deserve that nicks Mistress
Hall with the name of `Old Tabby'?"

Nicholas Pardue made no answer in words, but silently withdrew the
protecting towel, and disclosed the sufficiently accurate portrait of
Mistress Tabitha on the table-cloth.

"Thou weary gear of a pert, mischievous losel!" [wretch, rascal] cried
Collet. "Thou shalt dine with Duke Humphrey [a proverbial expression
for fasting] this morrow, and sup on birch broth, as I'm a living woman!
My clean-washed linen that I've been a-toiling o'er ever since three o'
the clock! Was there nought else to spoil but that, thou rascal?"

"Oh ay, Mother," said Silas placidly. "There's your new partlet, and
Pen's Sunday gown."

Mrs Pardue's hand came down not lightly upon Silas.

"I'll partlet thee, thou rogue! I'll learn thee to dirt clean gear, and
make work for thy mother! If ever in all my born days I saw a worser
lad--"

The door was darkened. Collet looked up, and beheld the parish priest.
Her hold of Silas at once relaxed--a fact of which that lively gentleman
was not slow to take advantage--and she dropped a courtesy, not very
heartfelt, as the Reverend Philip Bastian made his way into the cottage.
Nicholas gave a pull to his forelock, while Collet, bringing forward a
chair, which she dusted with her apron, dismissed Penuel with a look.

The priest's face meant business. He sat down, leaned both hands on his
gold-headed cane, and took a deliberate look at both Nicholas and Collet
before he said a word beyond the bare "Good even." After waiting long
enough to excite considerable uneasiness in their minds, he inquired in
dulcet tones--

"What have you to say to me, my children?"

It was the woman who answered. "Please you. Father, we've nought to
say, not in especial, without to hope you fare well this fine even."

"Indeed!--and how be you faring?"

"Right well, an't like you, Father, saving some few pains in my bones,
such as I oft have of a washing-day."

"And how is it with thy soul, daughter?"

"I lack not your help therein, I thank you," said Collet somewhat
spiritedly.

"Do you not so? I pray you, where have you stood in the church since
last May, that never once have I, looking from the altar, seen your
faces therein? Methinks you must have