When we came out from Mere Lea, and were come down the garden path, Aunt Joyce stood a moment on the hill-side, her eyes lift up to the still stars.
“Good Lord!” then saith she, “how hard be we poor sinful men and women, each to other, and how much more forbearing art Thou against whom we have sinned! Make Thou Thy servants more like Thyself!”
And then away, with a quick foot, and never an other word spake she till we gat us home.
Selwick Hall, January ye xxvii.
When I come to read o’er that I have writ, I find I have said rare little touching Ned. And in very deed it is not that I meant to keep him out, for Ned is my very hero, and my true thought is that never yet were young man so brave and good, nor so well-favoured. I must say I would I could conceive his talk better: for ’tis all so stuffed with sea-words that I would fain have an interpreter. Ned laughs when I say this.
“Well,” saith he, “’tis the strangest thing in the world you should not conceive me. ’Tis all along of you being maids, I reckon.”
“Nay,” say I, “’tis by reason we were ne’er at sea.”
“Well, how any human creature can be a landlubber,” saith Ned, “when he might have a good boat and a stiff capful o’ wind, passeth me rarely.”
“Why,” quoth Father, that had listed us in silence till now, “if we were all sailors and mermen, Ned, how wouldst come by a sea-biscuit or a lump of salt meat? There should be none to sow nor reap, if the land were deserted.”
“Oh ay, ’tis best some should love it,” saith Ned. “But how they so should, that is it passeth me.”