"Poor thing! They say she scolded herself to death. She was a sad shrew, from all accounts. Of course, I am not excusing Jotham," he added hastily; "I am only explaining."
Mary pondered. "'Tis a queer story!" she said at last. "'Twas strange he wouldn't listen to the minister, though. You'd thought he would!"
The chaplain's eyes twinkled.
"They are taken that way sometimes!" he said.
"I'll bet he'd have minded if you had told him to go home!" Mary spoke with conviction, but the chaplain shook his head.
"Don't be too sure, Mary! Did you ever hear about Mr. Bourne and his wife? No, how should you! It was an old song when my father was a boy. Listen, now!
"Mr. Bourne and his wife
One evening had a strife.
He wanted bread and butter with his tea,
But she swore she'd rule the roast
And she'd have a piece of toast,
So to loggerheads with him went she, she, she,
So to loggerheads with him went she.
"Now there was a Mr. Moore
Lived on the second floor,
A man very strong in the wrist.
He overheard the splutter
About toast and bread and butter
And he knocked down Mr. Bourne with his fist, fist, fist,
And he knocked down Mr. Bourne with his fist.
"Quoth Moore, 'By my life,
You shall not beat your wife.
It is both a sin and disgrace.'
'You fool,' said Mrs. Bourne,
''Tis no business of yourn!'
And she dashed a cup of tea in his face, face, face,
And she dashed a cup of tea in his face.