"Yes," admitted Constance; "and I'm much feared that she's got more in common with the angels than us could wish. 'Tis coming over me worse and worse; and over her, too, poor lamb."
"What ever do you mean?" he asked. Then he walked to the fire, removed his right gaiter and rubbed his huge leg where the strap had pressed too hardly upon it.
"My Madge is not like every girl you meet," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"Wish there was more of the same pattern."
"And I'm terrible jealous for her--I'll fight the world for her, like a hen with one chick; because her vartues are her own, and her faults she got from me."
"Faults!--who ever heard tell of her faults?"
"I take no credit in her beautiful goodness," continued the mother. "But I take shame in her softness. Too soft and gentle and yielding she is for this world, and the people in it. And, as her parent, I'm savage--savage as a wild cat, down in my secret heart--when I see people don't understand. 'Tis me they ought to blame, not she."
Mr. Shillabeer stared. His fingers were spread and a saucer of tea smoked upon them.
"You do amaze me; but I'll make bold to say you'm all wrong for once. 'Tis her softness that people take joy in. Always wanting to do for others--always putting herself on one side."
"A few may see her goodness," admitted Mrs. Stanbury; "but what's the use of that if them nearest to her can't see? Her own husband haven't got no patience with her now and again; and, mind you, I don't blame him--such a common-sense, hard man as him. And Rhoda the same. 'Tis their natures to take a practical stand."