“You're knowing a dale about the ould Book and I'm not knowing much,” said Pete, “but isn't it saying somewhere, 'Let him that's without sin amongst you chuck the first stone?' I'm not worth mentioning for a saint myself, so I lave it with you.”
His voice began to break. “You're thinking a dale about the broken law seemingly, but I'm thinking more about the broken heart. There's the like in somewhere, you go bail. The woman that's gone may have done wrong—I'm not saying she didn't, poor thing; but if she comes home again, you may turn her out, but I'll take her back, whatever she is and whatever she's done—so help me God I will—and I'll not wait for the Day of Judgment to ask the Almighty if I'm doing right.”
Then he sat down with his back to them on a chair before the fire.
“Now you can go home to nurse,” said Nancy, wiping her eyes, “and lave me to sweeten the kitchen—it's wanting water enough after dirts like you.”
Cæsar also was wiping his eye—the one nearest to Black Tom. “Come,” he said with plaintive resignation, “our errand was useless. The Ethiopian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots.”
“No, but he can get a topcoat to cover them, though,” said Nancy. “Oh, that flea sticks, does it, Cæsar? Don't blame the looking-glass if your face is ugly.”
Cæsar pretended not to hear her. “Well,” he said, with a sigh discharged at Pete's back, “we'll pray, spite of appearances, that we may all go to heaven together some day.”
“No, thank you, not me,” said Nancy. “I wouldn't be-mane myself going anywhere with the like of you.”
The Job in Cæsar could bear up no longer. “Vain and ungrateful woman,” he cried, “who hath eaten of my bread and drunken of my cup——”
“Cursing me, are you?” said Nancy. “Sakes! you must have been found in the bulrushes at Pharaoh's daughter and made a prophet of.”