“Ridiculous nonsense!” said Father.
“Is it not usually the case,” asked Mr Keith, who till then had hardly spoken, “that the world counts as mad the wisest men in it?”
“Why, Mr Keith, you must be one of them!” cried Mr Bagnall.
“Of the wise men? Thank you!” said Mr Keith, drily.
There was a laugh at this.
“But I can tell you of something queerer still,” Mr Bagnall went on. “Old Cis Crosthwaite, in my parish, says she knows her sins are forgiven.”
Such exclamations came from most of the gentlemen at that! “Preposterous!” said one. “Ridiculous!” said another. “Insufferable presumption!” cried a third.
“Cis Crosthwaite!” said Sir Robert Dacre, more quietly.
“Yes, Cis Crosthwaite,” repeated Mr Bagnall; “an old wretch of a woman who has never been any better than she should be, and whom I met sticking hedges only last winter. Her son Joe is the worst poacher in the parish.”
All the gentlemen seemed to think that most dreadful. I do not know why it is they always appear to reckon snaring wild game which belongs nobody a more wicked thing than breaking all the Ten Commandments. Would it not have been in them if it were?