I'm fain my master's not o' that
fashion: he's a bit too easy, my Nick is. I can't prevail on him to
thwack the lads when they're over-thwart; I have to do it myself."

"I'll go bail you'd not hurt 'em much," said Emmet, with an amused
glance at the round, rosy, good-humoured face of the mother of the six
"over-thwart" lads.

"Oh, will you! But I am a short mistress with 'em, I can tell you. Our
Aphabell shall hear of it, I promise you, when I get home. I bade him
yester-even fetch me two pound o' prunes from the spicer's, and gave him
threepence in his hand to pay for 'em; and if the rascal went not and
lost the money at cross and pile with Gregory White, and never a prune
have I in the store-cupboard. He's at all evers playing me tricks o'
that fashion. 'Tisn't a week since I sent him for a dozen o' Paris
candles, and he left 'em in the water as he came o'er the bridge. Eh,
Mistress Wilson, but lads be that pestiferous! You've but one, and that
one o' the quiet peaceable sort--you've somewhat to be thankful for, I
can tell you, that hasn't six like me, and they a set o' contrarious,
outrageous, boisterous caitiffs as ever was seen i' this world."

"Which of 'em would you wish to part with, Collet?"

"Well, be sure!" was Collet's half-laughing answer, as she mentally
reviewed the young gentlemen in question--her giddy, thoughtless
Aphabell, her mischievous Tobias, her Esdras always out at elbows, her
noisy, troublesome Noah, her rough Silvanus, whom no amount of
"thwacking" seemed to polish, and her lazy, ease-loving Valentine.
"Nay, come, I reckon I'll not make merchandise of any of 'em this bout.
They are a lot o' runagates, I own, but I'm their mother, look you."

Emmet Wilson smiled significantly. "Ay, Collet, and 'tis well for you
and me that cord bears pulling at."

"You and me?" responded Collet, lifting her bundle higher, into an
easier position. "'Tis well enough for the lads, I dare say; but what
ado hath it with you and me?"

"I love to think, neighbour, that somewhat akin to it is said by nows
and thens of us, too, in the Court of the Great King, when the enemy
accuseth us--`Ay, she did this ill thing, and she's but a poor black
sinner at best; but thou shalt not have her, Satan; I'm her Father.'"

"You're right there, Emmet Wilson," said Collet, in a tone which showed
that the last sentence had touched her heart. "The work and care that
my lads give me is nought to the sins wherewith w