“Nay,” said I, “I would trust to be wise on all.”
“There spake our Nell!” cries Milly. “I could swear it were she, though mine eyes were shut close.”
“This book doth somewhat divert me, Joyce,” quoth Father, looking at her. “Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page, and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be pleasant reading.”
“And I reckon,” saith Aunt Joyce, “they shall be reasonable true to themselves an’ it be thus.”
“And I,” saith Milly, “that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any.”
“Ergo,” quoth Father, “wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is, Milly,—to unwise folks.”
“Then, Father, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you,” saith she, a-laughing.
Father arose, and laid his hand upon Milly’s head as he passed by her.
“The wise can love the unwise, my maid,” saith he. “How could the only wise God love any one of us else?”
Selwick Hall, October ye ii.