e of what you've been saying to me this half-
hour. In plain English, what is there the matter about Phoebe's gloves?"

"In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing else,
please to ask your daughter Phoebe who gave her those gloves. Phoebe,
who gave you those gloves?"

"I wish they were burnt," said the husband, whose patience could endure
no longer. "Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phoebe?"

"Papa," answered Phoebe, in a low voice, "they were a present from Mr.
Brian O'Neill."

"The Irish glover!" cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

"Yes," resumed the mother; "very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you. Now, you
see, I had my reasons."

"Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phoebe," said her father, in
his most peremptory tone. "I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian
O'Neill the first time I ever saw him. He's an Irishman, and that's
enough, and too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phoebe! When I order
a thing, it must be done."

Phoebe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and
gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them.
This objection was immediately removed by her mother's pulling from her
pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been whole,
but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been long
stretched by one who was twice the size of Phoebe, now hung in huge
wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.

"But, papa," said Phoebe, "why should we take a dislike to him because he
is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be a good man?"

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it
was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing;
and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a
significant look at Phoebe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk
or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially for
a verger's daughter.

We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by several of
the congregation concerning the reason why Miss Phoebe Hill should appear
in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a Sunday. After service was
ended, the verger went, with great mystery, to examine the hole under the
foundation of the cathedral; and Mrs. Hill repaired, with the grocer's
and the stationer's ladies, to take a walk in the Close, where she
boasted to all her female acquaintance, whom she called her friends, of