“He was n’t familiar,” cried Janice, angrily and proudly, “and you should know that if he had been I—he was telling me—”
“Yes,” cried her mother, “tell me what he was saying about paradise? Dost think me a nizey, child, not to know what men mean when they talk about paradise?”
Janice’s cheeks reddened, and she replied hotly, “If men talked to you about paradise, why should n’t they talk to me? I’m sure ’t is a pleasant change after the parson’s everlasting and eternal talk of an everlasting and eternal—”
“Don’t thee dare say it!” interrupted Mrs. Meredith. “Thou fallen, sin-eaten child! Go to thy room and stay there for the rest of the day. ’T is all of a piece that thou shouldst disgrace us by unseemly conduct with a stable-boy. Fine talk ’t will make for the tavern.”
The injustice and yet possible truth in this speech was too much for Janice to hear, and without an attempt at reply, she burst into a storm of tears and fled to her room.
Deprived of a listener, Mrs. Meredith sought the squire, and very much astonished him by a prediction that, “Thy daughter, Mr. Meredith, is going to bring disgrace on the family.”
“What’s to do now?” cried the parent.
“A pretty to do, indeed,” his wife assured him. “Dost want her running off some fine night with thy groom?”
“Tush, Matilda!” responded Mr. Meredith. “’T is impossible.”
“Just what my parents said when thou camest a-courting.”