“I don’t know; I don’t think I very much care, for you will always be my own dear brother. Whichever will let me see most of you, I think.”
“You don’t ask me which I prefer,” pouted Elgitha, coming up behind.
“I didn’t know you were listening, goosie,” said Mark, drawing her arm through his, “But, come now, favour us with your opinion.”
“Well, Mark, my honest and true opinion is that you, if you don’t get away from stupid old Rosenhurst as soon as ever you can, you will be a goose of the first feather.”
“And wherefore, O most profound Sybilla?”
“Because there is nothing on earth to do; one day is just exactly like another, and as to being a parson, it just takes an angel like father to put up with it.”
“You naughty girl; what do you mean?”
“Why, isn’t he at everybody’s beck and call from Sunday morning to Saturday night? If Farmer Baynes quarrels with his son, father has to hear both sides, and to try and make them hear reason; if Widow Marvel’s ten babies are down with typhoid fever, because she will not keep the place decently clean, he has to supplement the work of the doctor, and go in and out of the filthy hole as if he liked it. Nobody is in any trouble, no one does any sin, but it all comes back upon father. Don’t you know that that’s what makes him look so white—that and Gilbert together?”
“Elgitha,” said Mark, gravely, “your father is one of God’s saints, and of such as he is the kingdom of heaven. Do not grudge him to the work; his reward is ready. But why would you have me leave Rosenhurst? Do you think sin and sorrow are not as frequent elsewhere?”
“Perhaps; but at any rate other places cannot be as stupid.”