PARSON.—“Ha! ha! Answer that if you can, Carry.” Carry remained mute and disdainful.
SQUIRE (with great naivete).—“Well, I don’t think there’s much in the book, whoever wrote it; for I’ve read it myself, and understand every word of it.”
MRS. DALE.—“I don’t see why you should suppose it was written by a man at all. For my part, I think it must be a woman.”
MRS. HAZELDEAN.—“Yes, there’s a passage about maternal affection, which only a woman could have written.”
PARSON.—“Pooh! pooh! I should like to see a woman who could have written that description of an August evening before a thunderstorm; every wild-flower in the hedgerow exactly the flowers of August, every sign in the air exactly those of the month. Bless you! a woman would have filled the hedge with violets and cowslips. Nobody else but my friend Moss could have written that description.”
SQUIRE.—“I don’t know; there’s a simile about the waste of corn-seed in hand-sowing, which makes me think he must be a farmer!”
MRS. DALE (scornfully).—“A farmer! In hobnailed shoes, I suppose! I say it is a woman.”
MRS. HAZELDEAN.—“A WOMAN, and A MOTHER!”
PARSON.—“A middle-aged man, and a naturalist.”
SQUIRE.—“No, no, Parson, certainly a young man; for that love-scene puts me in mind of my own young days, when I would have given my ears to tell Harry how handsome I thought her; and all I could say was, ‘Fine weather for the crops, Miss.’ Yes, a young man and a farmer. I should not wonder if he had held the plough himself.”