"Holding a convention behind the tree, I suppose. At least, I left them there."
"And did not Mr. Stubb dare the fatal leap?"
"He tried, and was thrown into a mud puddle."
"No bodily harm, I hope."
"No; beaver and broadcloth were the principal sufferers. But his conceit is shaken out of him for twenty-four hours, at least."
"Then I have wrought a miracle, and can claim to be canonized on the strength of it."
"I hope you may be; but I never expected to see your name in the calendar of saints."
"As you will not allow me to be a saint, I suppose you consider me as mad. Sanctity and madness, they say, are of kin."
"A hair's breadth, or so, on this side madness."
"Then I am entitled to great credit for keeping my wits at all. What reasonable girl would not be driven mad with Mrs. Primrose to watch her, and disapprove of her, and correct her? Strange—is it not?—that some people—if Mrs. Primrose will allow me to use so inelegant an expression—are always rubbing one against the grain."