Parson.—"Ha, ha! Answer that, if you can, Carry."
Carry remained mute and disdainful.
Squire, (with great naïveté.)—"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."