“Hush!” said Lucy, “don’t say anything naughty, for my sake.”
Ursa Major growled and finished his sentence, more expressive than refined, in an unknown tongue.
“But it does seem a pity that we can’t have a chapel, doesn’t it? Farmer Houston’s kitchen cannot hold all the people.”
“Humph! What’s the squire care about that?”
“No, more’s the pity, but our young minister, Mr. Mitchell, says that, seeing we can’t get all the people who come into one room, we must try to find another. He would like to get one in Midden Harbour.”
“Midden Harbour! Miss Blyth. Why that’s a rum spot to come into.”
“Why, you see; Squire Fuller couldn’t touch us there.” [O Lucy, you inveterate plotter! you designing woman!] “And you see, Mr. Morris, if your neighbours are a bad lot, it’s time somebody was trying to do them good. But,” said she, heaving a sigh which was intended to search the innermost recesses of his heart, “there’s nobody there that has room enough to take us in.”
Piggy Morris smiled grimly, as he said, “Try Dick Spink, the besom-maker.”
“Oh, don’t mention that wicked man. We must have a more respectable place than that, or we can’t come at all, and Squire Fuller will get his way.”