"Is it possible, Susan, that this living, breathing, dimpled little wonder is yours?"
"I suppose it is," said the blushing Susan.
"Where is its father?" I inquired, for John Henry had not yet appeared.
"It hasn't got any father!" ejaculated Mrs. D——, with grim sarcasm. "A man can't be a reform-preacher, and a father too. His sermons, lectures, and conventions are of too much importance for him even to think of his wife and child."
I looked to see poor Susan writhe with pain under these harsh words. But she merely heaved a sigh, and let fall a tear on the babe, which she had taken from its grandmother's arms.
"I will speak to Mr. Pendlam," she said, as she hastily left the room.
"I am glad you have come," said Mrs. D——, bitterly, seating herself on the sofa. "I am glad to see any person enter this house, who isn't all eaten up with the evils of society. I have heard about the evils of society till I'm heartily sick of them. People that come to see Pendlam don't generally talk about anything else. It's the ruin of him, as I tell Susan; I never in this world can be reconciled to his leaving his church."
Mrs. D—— became confidential, and abused her daughter's husband in a style which did not argue much for the peace of his household during that energetic lady's visits. Her indignation against him had quite swallowed up her old cherished resentment against myself. She soon went so far as to insinuate a regret that Susan had not married a man of solid sense and some mental ballast, (meaning me,) instead of a hotheaded reformer.
Susan reentered. "Mr. Pendlam is very busy; but he will come down presently."
She sighed, and took a seat. Mrs. D—— continued her abuse of her son-in-law, in her daughter's presence,—which I thought in very bad taste, to say the least. Susan uttered not one word in her husband's defence, but simply sat and sighed. I defended and praised him; for which act of friendship I earned not one look of gratitude from her, and only contempt and sneers from her mother.