“I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,” said he: “I’ll take a glass of your excellent ale.”
“With pleasure!” cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the bell and order the favoured beverage.
“I thought,” continued he, “I’d just look in upon you as I passed, and taste your home-brewed ale. I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.”
“Have you, indeed?”
He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis—“I thought it incumbent upon me to do so.”
“Really!” ejaculated my mother.
“Why so, Mr. Millward?” asked I.
He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my mother, repeated,—“I thought it incumbent upon me!” and struck his stick on the floor again. My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring auditor.
“‘Mrs. Graham,’ said I,” he continued, shaking his head as he spoke, “‘these are terrible reports!’ ‘What, sir?’ says she, affecting to be ignorant of my meaning. ‘It is my—duty—as—your pastor,’ said I, ‘to tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your conduct, and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me concerning you.’—So I told her!”
“You did, sir?” cried I, starting from my seat and striking my fist on the table. He merely glanced towards me, and continued—addressing his hostess:—