“Mother!” said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, “who be Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?”
Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh.
“Nay, dear heart!” answered his mother. “Those be the holy Apostles, that writ the Evangels.”
“What be the Evangels, Mother?”
“Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?” demanded Mistress Flint. “Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in the Minster.”
“What be they about, Mother?”
“Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abed this even,” responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a query which she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show of peremptoriness, she drove Will and Dickon upstairs to the bedchamber, in which slept the five boys of the family.
There was a minute’s silence, only broken by the movements of Helen and Anne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which had been used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said—to nobody in particular—
“What be they about?”
His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shake of the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen.