The father burst into a loud roar of laughter, and laughed till the tears were running down his face. Spelt would have joined him but for the reverence he had for Mattie, who sat unmoved on her throne at the head of the table, looking down with calm benignity on her father's passion, as if laughter were a weakness belonging to grown-up men, in which they were to be condescendingly indulged by princesses, and little girls in general.
"Well, how's the world behaving to you, Spelt?" asked the bookseller, after various ineffectual attempts to stop his laughter by the wiping of his eyes.
"The world has never behaved ill to me, thank God," answered the tailor.
"Now, don't you trouble yourself to say that. You've got nobody to thank but yourself."
"But I like to thank God," said Mr. Spelt, apologetically. "I forgot that you wouldn't like it."
"Pshaw! pshaw! I don't mind it from you, for I believe you're fool enough to mean what you say. But, tell me this, Spelt—did you thank God when your wife died?"
"I tried hard not. I'm afraid I did, though," answered Spelt, and sat staring like one who has confessed, and awaits his penance.
The bookseller burst into another loud laugh, and slapped his hand on his leg.
"You have me there, I grant, Spelt."