“Oh, Mr. Goodrich, this is awful.”
“Well, well, Cicely, really, you know, the little ones would sooner have pennies.”
Cicely stared at him in amazement. Perhaps, for the first time, she beheld her pastor as one concerned with parochial trifles oblivious of great issues. She said almost gaspingly:
“I’m speaking of the Extons. Surely, surely, it can’t be Mother’s duty to turn out such old tenants.”
At this Brian pulled himself together. Cis, evidently, was getting out of hand.
“You can bet your boots, Cis, that Mums knows best. Don’t you run riot, old thing! Any fool can see that she loathes the job as much as you do.”
“I suppose so,” Cicely admitted reluctantly. “And if Mr. Goodrich thinks Mother right——?” She looked at the parson, interrogatively.
“Exton is certainly an unlucky farmer, still——”
“Suppose Mother turns him out, and suppose it kills him? Everybody will say that she has done him in.”
Mr. Goodrich raised an expostulatory finger.