“These habits of waste and extravagance, Peter Barring-ton. I repeat my words.”
Had a venerable divine, being asked on the conclusion of an edifying discourse, for how much longer it might be his intention to persist in such ribaldries, his astonishment could scarce have been greater than Barrington's.
“Why, sister Dinah, are we not keeping an inn? Is not this the 'Fisherman's Home'?”
“I should think it is, Peter,” said she, with scorn. “I suspect he finds it so. A very excellent name for it it is!”
“Must I own that I don't understand you, Dinah?”
“Of course you don't. You never did all your life. You never knew you were wet till you were half drowned, and that's what the world calls having such an amiable disposition! Ain't your friends nice friends? They are always telling you how generous you are,—how free-handed,—how benevolent. What a heart he has! Ay, but thank Providence there's very little of that charming docility about me, is there?”
“None, Dinah,—none,” said he, not in the least suspecting to what he was bearing testimony.
She became crimson in a minute, and in a tone of some emotion said, “And if there had been, where should you and where should I be to-day? On the parish, Peter Barrington,—on the parish; for it 's neither your head nor your hands would have saved us from it.”
“You're right, Dinah; you're right there. You never spoke a truer word.” And his voice trembled as he said it.
“I did n't mean that, Peter,” said she, eagerly; “but you are too confiding, too trustful. Perhaps it takes a woman to detect all the little wiles and snares that entangle us in our daily life?”