“How very sad for the poor girl,” Merle raised hyacinth wells of sympathy to the weather-beaten face above hers. (“Stuart!”)
“Eh, thet’s t’lass. She du get them moastly in chapel, she du.”
“Oh,” brightly, “then wouldn’t it be better if she never went to chapel?”
A gurgle of laughter from Peter. Merle turned her back yet more squarely upon her irrepressible companions.
“Ne’er can tell when she be gettin’ one o’ they fits. Scream, she du, an’ fling up her arms.” He regarded his talented offspring intently. “Seem tu me, she be gettin’ thet way now....”
Merle fled.
“Never mind, then,” Stuart teased her half an hour later. “She shall be remembered in the hearts of the people. She shall understand the simple joys and sorrows of the rude peasantry——”
“After all,” Peter finished consolingly, “you’re the only one of us who can make Mrs. Trenner understand what pudding we want for lunch.”
Merle cried, casting herself upon their beloved horsehair sofa: