“Be silent, boy,” said his father, sternly—“is this a time—”
“Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, are you sure George is safe?” madam implored.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” replied her husband, “he’s safe as we all are—in the hands of Divine Providence. Peter, get candles.”
A chattering of teeth was heard, but the statue did not stir from its pedestal.
“Scipio, do you?”
“Please, master, it’s Aunt Vi’let’s business to get ’em ready,” said Scip in a trembling voice.
The worthy gentleman, not feeling himself equal to an encounter with Vi’let in such an extremity, said—
“Well, it will be the shortest way to get them myself,” and made preparations to do so; at which Vi’let, safe in the easy-chair, displayed great indignation.
“Why don’t you go, Scip? there’s master going himself, if I’m alive. I wish I was near you, I’d see if you didn’t stir your stumps.”
A low grumble was heard from Scip in the ante-room.