sis, there's naw cakes. They're all left behind on t' counter at
Randall's. Mr. Backhouse says as how he told old Jim to go fur 'em, and
he niver went, and Mr. Backbouse he niver found oot till he'd got past
t' bridge, and than it wur too late to go back.'

Mrs. Thornburgh stood transfixed, something of her fresh pink
color slowly deserting her face as she realized the enormity of the
catastrophe. And was it possible that there was the faintest twinkle of
grim satisfaction on the face of that elderly minx, Sarah?

Mrs. Thornburgh, however, did, not stay to explore the recesses of
Sarah's mind, but ran with little pattering, undignified steps across
the front garden and down the steps to where Mr. Backhouse, the carrier,
stood, bracing himself for self-defense.

'Ya may weel fret, mum,' said Mr. Backhouse, interrupting the flood of
her reproaches, with the comparative _sang-froid_ of one who knew that,
after all, he was the only carrier on the road, and that the vicarage
was five miles from the necessaries of life; 'it's a bad job, and I's
not goin' to say it isn't. But; ya jest look 'ere, mum, what's a man to
du wi' a daft thingamy like _that_, as caan't teak a plain order, and
spiles a poor man's business as caan't help hissel'?'

And Mr. Backhouse pointed with withering scorn to a small, shrunken
old man, who sat dangling his legs on the shaft of the cart, and
whose countenance wore a singular expression of mingled meekness and
composure, as his partner flourished an indignant finger toward him.

'Jim,' cried Mrs. Thornburgh reproachfully, 'I did think you would have
taken more pains about my order!'

'Yis, mum,'said the old man, placidly, 'ya might 'a' thowt it. I's reet
sorry, but ya caan't help these things _sum_times--an' it's naw gud
hollerin' ower 'em like a mad bull. Aa tuke yur bit paper to Randall's
and aa laft it wi' 'em to mek up, an' than, aa weel, aa went to a frind,
an' ee _may_ hev giv' me a glass of yale, aa doon't say ee _dud_--but ee
may, I ween't sweer. Hawsomiver, aa niver thowt naw mair aboot it, nor
mair did John, so _ee_ needn't taak--till we wur jest two mile from
'ere. An' ee's a gon' on sence! My! an' a larroping the poor beast like
onything.'

Mrs. Thornburgh stood aghast at the calmness of this audacious recital.
As for John, he looked on, surveying his brother's philosophical
demeanor at first with speechless wrath, and then with an inscrutable
mixture of expressions, in which, howe