Squire, (with great naiveté.)—"Well, I don't think there's much in the book, whoever wrote it; for I've read it myself, and understand every word of it."
Mrs Dale.—"I don't see why you should suppose it was written by a man at all. For my part, I think it must be a woman."
Mrs Hazeldean.—"Yes, there's a passage about maternal affection, which only a woman could have written."
Parson.—"Pooh, pooh! I should like to see a woman who could have written that description of an August evening before a thunderstorm; every wildflower in the hedgerow exactly the flowers of August—every sign in the air exactly those of the month. Bless you! a woman would have filled the hedge with violets and cowslips. Nobody else but my friend Moss could have written that description."
Squire.—"I don't know; there's a simile about the waste of corn-seed in hand-sowing, which makes me think he must be a farmer!"
Mrs Dale, (scornfully.)—"A farmer! In hob-nailed shoes, I suppose! I say it is a woman."
Mrs Hazeldean.—"A WOMAN, and A MOTHER!"
Parson.—"A middle-aged man, and a naturalist."
Squire.—"No, no, Parson; certainly a young man; for that love-scene puts me in mind of my own young days, when I would have given my ears to tell Harry how handsome I thought her; and all I could say was—'Fine weather for the crops, Miss.' Yes, a young man, and a farmer. I should not wonder if he had held the plough himself."