“That is more likely,” said Susan. “George, take William's hand; take it this instant, I say,” cried she, with an air imperative and impatient.
“Well, why not? don't you go in a passion, Susan, about nothing,” said George coaxingly.
They took hands; she made them hold one another by the hand, which they did with both their heads hanging down. “While I speak a word to you two,” said Susan Merton.
“You ought both to go on your knees, and thank Providence that sent me here to prevent so great a crime; and as for you, your character must change greatly, George Fielding, before I trust myself to live in a house of yours.”
“Is all the blame to fall on my head?” said George, letting go William's hand with no great apparent reluctance.
“Of course it is! William is a quiet lad that quarrels with nobody; you are always quarreling; you thrashed our carter last Candlemas.”
“He spoke saucy words about you.”
Susan, smiling inwardly, made her face as repulsive outside as lay in her power.
“I don't believe it,” said Susan; “your time was come round to fight and be a ruffian, and so it was to-day, no doubt.”
“Ah!” said George, sorrowfully, “it is always poor George that does all the wrong.