“I reckon I know that Thou would, if she’d plucked as much of thy whiskers out as she has o’ mine.”
“And wives ought to obey their husbands.”
“Thou’ll oblige me by saying so to her, and I’ll be glad to know if thou likes what thou’ll get.”
“You think she cannot be managed?”
“Not without one o’ th’ archangels likes to try. I’ll not say he wouldn’t be sorry at after.”
“It does seem such a sad way for you to live,” said Avice pityingly.
“Grin and bide,” said Dan philosophically. “Grin while I can, and bide when I can’t. But I’ll tell thee what—if some o’ them fighting fellows as goes up and down a-seeking for adventures, ’d just take off Ankaret and Mildred—well, I don’t know about El’nor: she’s been better o’ late—and eh, but they couldn’t take Her, or I’d ha’ given th’ cow into th’ bargain, and been right glad on’t—and if me and Emma and Bertha could ha’ settled down in a bit of a house somewhere, and been peaceable— Come, it’s no use hankering over things as can’t be. Elsewise, I’d ha’ said a chap might ha’ had a bit o’ comfort then.”
“Uncle Dan, did you ever think of praying that Aunt Filomena might have a better temper?”
“Ever think of what?” demanded Uncle Dan in the biggest capitals ever seen on a placard.
“You know God could make her temper sweet, Uncle Dan.”