en
you come into chapel late on a Sunday morning, and think to slip in
quietly during the first prayer; and it is pretty much the same with
husbands--those that are the meekest in the wooing are the most
masterful to live with."

"What was the name of the Churchman your niece married?" asked Mrs.
Bateson. "I forget."

"Wilkins--Tom Wilkins. He isn't a bad fellow in some respects--he is
steady and sober, and never keeps back a farthing of his wages for
himself; but his views are something dreadful. I can not stand them at
any price, and so I'm forever telling his wife."

"Dear me! That's sad news, Mrs. Hankey."

"Would you believe it, he don't hold with the good old Methodist habit
of telling out loud what the Lord has done for your soul? He says
religion should be acted up to and not talked about; but, for my part, I
can't abide such closeness."

"Nor I," agreed Mrs. Bateson warmly; "I don't approve of treating the
Lord like a poor relation, as some folks seem to do. They'll go to His
house and they'll give Him their money; but they're fairly ashamed of
mentioning His Name in decent company."

"Just so; and that's Tom Wilkins to the life. He's a good husband and a
regular church-goer; but as for the word that edifieth, you might as
well look for it from a naked savage as from him. Many a time have I
said to his wife, 'Tom may be a kind husband in the time of prosperity,
as I make no doubt he is--there's plenty of that sort in the world; but
you wait till the days of adversity come, and I doubt that then you'll
be wishing you'd not been in such a hurry to get married, but had waited
till you had got a good Methodist!' And so she will, I'll be bound; and
the sooner she knows it the better."

Mrs. Bateson sighed at the gloomy prospect opening out before young Mrs.
Wilkins; then she asked:

"How did the last daughter's wedding go off? She married a Methodist,
surely?"

"She did, Mrs. Bateson; and a better match no mother could wish for her
daughter, not even a duchess born; he's a chapel-steward and a
master-painter, and has six men under him. There he is, driving to work
and carrying his own ladders in his own cart, like a lord, as you may
say, by day; and there he is on a Thursday evening, letting and
reletting the pews and sittings after service, like a real gentleman. As
I said to my sister, I only hope he may be spared to make Susan a good
husband; but when a man is a chapel-steward at thirty-four, and driv