No sooner had the street door closed than Mrs. Pear-tree, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up to the elbow, entered the precincts of the chamber. Scorn was in every lineament of her countenance, but directly her eyes fell on the parlour walls, the scorn deepened to wrath.
‘Brother Brown’s been at them walls again,’ she cried. I wonder at you, Mark Peartree, to sit still and see him do it. Tracts agin your own wedded wife, stuck on the walls of her own best parlour—oh, I’d “tract” him!’
As she spoke, she made a dash at each of the papers in succession, and tore them angrily away.
‘My lass,’ said Uncle Mark, gruffly, ‘read’em—they’re left for your convarsion.’
‘Stuff and rubbish!’
‘Salvation ain’t rubbish, mother, and this here earth’s a wale. A wale it is! And let me tell you, tho’ you are my missus, it don’t become you to put Brother Brown so much about. Why, while we was a-singing, I heard you clattering the dishes like a barge a-heaving anchor, and I see Brother Brown looking at the door out of the corner of his eyes. No, my lass, it don’t become you, and it ain’t settin’ a good example to little Madlin, who may be a wessel herself by and by.’
‘Never, if I can help it,’ answered the woman. ‘We’ve wessels enough in our family, what with you and Uncle Luke. Look at the mark o’ the dirty muddy feet on the clean carpet. I wish you’d meet outside, or in some other house but mine.’
‘And I wish you’d join us—it’d do you a power of good.’
Mrs. Peartree’s only answer was to toss her head and walk back into the kitchen. Uncle Luke followed very crestfallen and pitiful at the domestic disagreement; while Uncle Mark remained in the parlour, and showed the pictures in Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs’—a precious tome of tremendous antiquity—to Madeline. The child shuddered as she saw on every page flame consuming those who testified to the truth in evil times.
‘Uncle Mark,’ she said, ‘do they ever burn people now?’