The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry face—an obstinately wry face; he could not manage to control it. He smiled at once—a quick, sweet comprehensive little smile. It was heroic—he was sure that it was! And it was! He could do no more. ’Twas impossible to take the brewis. A melancholy—ay, and perilous—situation for a hungry man: an old man, and a dyspeptic. Conceive it, if you can!
“That ain’t hearty,” Aunt Tibbie complained.
“To be frank,” said the parson, in great humiliation—“to be perfectly frank, I like brewis, but—”
The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie’s eyes.
“—I don’t find it inspiring,” the parson concluded, in shame.
The twins promptly took advantage of the opportunity to pass their plates for more.
“Dyspepsey?” Aunt Tibbie inquired.
“It might be called that,” Parson All replied, sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a flush of guilt and shame, “by a physician.”
“Poor man!” Aunt Tibbie signed.
There was a brief silence—expectant, but not selfishly so, on the part of the parson; somewhat despairing on the part of the hosts.