"Oh, yes," sez Miss Cork. "On week days it is a exaltin' and upliftin' and dreadful religious sight; but on Sundays it is a crime to even think on it. Sundays should be kep pure and holy and riz up, and I wouldn't have Cornelius desecrate himself and the Sabbath by goin' to the Fair not for a world full of gold."
"Where would he go Sundays while he wuz in Chicago if he didn't go there?" sez Arville.
She is real cuttin' sometimes, Arville is, but then Miss Cork loves to put on Arville, and twit her of her single state, and kinder act high-headed and throw Cornelius in her face, and act.
Sez Arville—"Where would Cornelius Jr. go if he didn't go to the Fair?"
Cornelius Jr. drinks awful and is onstiddy, and Miss Cork hemmed and hawed, and finally said, in kind of a meachin' way—
"Why, to meetin', of course."
He hadn't been in a meetin'-house for two years, and we all knew it, and Miss Cork knew that we knew it—hence the meach.
"He don't go to meetin' here to Jonesville," sez Arville.
"He don't go to meetin' here."