"What letters mother?" queried Moses, with the evident delight of extorting a confession.
"Why as I was a-hangin' up your Sunday trousers some of 'em fell out and I couldn't help a-lookin' at the writin' on the back.
"From as fine a gentleman as ever walked the streets of St. John," cried Moses quite emphatically.
"What's comin' next! You, Moses Spriggins of Mill Crossin', a ritin' letters to a gentleman. Let's hear all about it.
"I'm not at liberty to tell you jest now mother, I'm sorry to say, but it's all right."
"Am I in my sober senses or am I in a nightmare? (No, there's Mose as nateral as life.)" Then pointing her finger at the supposed culprit Mrs. Spriggins exclaimed: "I tell you what it is Moses Spriggins it's nothin' very good that you're ahidin' from your own mother. Got into them lawyer's clutches at last? Ye used ter say ye liked law and if I'm as good a prophet as I think I ort to be you'll get enough of it. Like as not the farm and the stock and all the utensils will go afore long. Oh dear me!"
Mrs. Spriggins now stopped for want of breath and fawning herself violently with the bottom of her blue gingham apron made a second onslaught.
"I tell ye what it is Mose there is no good comin' of this 'ere gallivantin' to town every t'other day, anyhow."
"Mother, if you would only have patience a few minits I might make some explanation, but you seem to want to have it your own way," said Moses, who had now determined to venture a word or two in his defence.
"Be keerful, Moses, how you speak to your own mother. It's time I had everything my own way, when other folks can't manage their own affairs," said Mrs. Spriggins, with an angry toss of her head.