“How do you like that, my dear?” asked Sewell exultantly.
Mrs. Sewell looked grave, and then burst into a shocked laugh. “You must stop that paper, David! I can't have it about for the children to get hold of. But it is funny, isn't it? That will do—”
“No, I think you'd better have it all, now. There can't be anything worse. It's funny, yes, with that truly infernal drollery which the newspaper wits seem to have the art of.” He read on—“—'when a case was called that brought the breath of clover blossoms and hay-seed into the sultry court-room, and warmed the cockles of the habitués' toughened pericardiums with a touch of real poetry. This was a case of assault, with intent to rob, in which a lithe young blonde, answering to the good old Puritanic name of Statira Dudley, was the complainant, and the defendant an innocent-looking, bucolic youth, yclept—'”
Sewell stopped and put his hand to his forehead.
“What is it, David?” demanded his wife. “Why don't you go on? Is it too scandalous?”
“No, no,” murmured the minister.
“Well?”
“I can't go on. But you must read it, Lucy,” he said, in quite a passion of humility. “And you must try to be merciful. That poor boy—that—”
He handed the paper to his wife, and made no attempt to escape from judgment, but sat submissive while she read the report of Lemuel's trial. The story was told throughout in the poetico-jocular spirit of the opening sentences; the reporter had felt the simple charm of the affair, only to be ashamed of it and the more offensive about it.
When she had finished Mrs. Sewell did not say anything. She merely looked at her husband, who looked really sick.