Martha bought two pounds of butter.
"Mean is his size," Tim grieved.
"Much is his cost," Martha whined.
"Get you one pound of marsherin and make him one and put him on a wetted cabbage leaf."
The fifth Sunday dawned.
"Next to-morrow," said Martha, "the daughter will be home. Go you to the jail and fetch her, and take you for her a big hat for old jailers cut the hair very short."
"No-no," Tim replied. "Better she returns and speak nothing. With no questions shall we question her."
Monday opened and closed.
"Mistake is in your count," Martha hinted.