“And if he wouldn’t it’s a pity. Wives, obey your husbands, hey? But there ain’t no call for hurry. More haste less speed, I allus thinks. But I don’t want to keep you from your occupations. There air some visitors who forgit folks kin’t afford to keep more’n one Sunday a week, hey? Sorter devil’s darnin’-needles flyin’ into your ear—they worry you, and they don’t do themselves no good. So don’t you take no notice of me. I’ll jest talk to Matt to fill up the time.”
Mrs. Cattermole straightened herself against the door. “He won’t listen; he’s too mad.”
“I reckon I could tone him down some.”
“Guess not. He’s too sot—he won’t come in.”
“I ain’t proud. I’ll go to him. True pride is in doin’ what’s right, I allus thinks. Some folks kin’t see the difference between true pride an’ false pride. I’ll go to the kitchen.”
“I’d rayther you didn’t, deacon. It’s all in a clutter.”
The conversation drooped. The deacon’s mouth moved in mere chawing. Swallowing his quid in deference to the parlor, he cut himself a new chunk.
“You’ve heerd about the doctor, Mrs. Cattermole?” he began again.
“I dunno es I hev.”
“What! Not heerd about our doctor es was said to practise the Black Art?”