"Deary me, M.; don't think of that now," said the wife.
"What's the use?" said Snengkeld. "Care killed a cat."
"And perhaps you may," said John Kenneby, trying to comfort him; "who knows?"
"It's all in the hands of Providence," said Kantwise, "and we should look to him."
"And how does it taste?" asked Moulder, shaking the gloomy thoughts from his mind.
"Uncommon," said Snengkeld, with his mouth quite full. "I never eat such a turkey in all my life."
"Like melted diamonds," said Mrs. Moulder, who was not without a touch of poetry.
"Ah, there's nothing like hanging of 'em long enough, and watching of 'em well. It's that vinegar as done it;" and then they went seriously to work, and there was nothing more said of any importance until the eating was nearly over.
And now Mrs. M. had taken away the cloth, and they were sitting cozily over their port wine. The very apple of the eye of the evening had not arrived even yet. That would not come till the pipes were brought out, and the brandy was put on the table, and the whisky was there that made the people's hair stand on end. It was then that the floodgates of convivial eloquence would be unloosed. In the mean time it was necessary to sacrifice something to gentility, and therefore they sat over their port wine.
"Did you bring that letter with you, John?" said his sister. John replied that he had done so, and that he had also received another letter that morning from another party on the same subject.