Two or three gaily dressed riflemen passed the window. The poor fellows, unable to bear the look of their Sunday clothes, if they had any, after being used to their uniform, had come out in all its magnificence.
“Ah!” said Mr. Appleditch, “that’s all very well in a state of nature; but when a man is once born into a state of grace, Mr. Sutherland—ah!”
“Really,” responded Mrs. Appleditch, “the worldliness of the lower classes is quite awful. But they are spared for a day of wrath, poor things! I am sure that accident on the railway last Sabbath, might have been a warning to them all. After that they can’t say there is not a God that ruleth in the earth, and taketh vengeance for his broken Sabbaths.”
“Mr.—. I don’t know your name,” said Peter, whose age Hugh had just been trying in vain to conjecture.
“Mr. Sutherland,” said the mother.
“Mr. Slubberman, are you a converted character?” resumed Peter.
“Why do you ask me that, Master Peter?” said Hugh, trying to smile.
“I think you look good, but mamma says she don’t think you are, because you say Sunday instead of Sabbath, and she always finds people who do are worldly.”
Mrs. Appleditch turned red—not blushed, and said, quickly:
“Peter shouldn’t repeat everything he hears.”