“But, my dear Mrs. Hill, what has all this to do with Phoebe’s gloves?”

“Are you blind, Mr. Hill?  Don’t you see that they are Limerick gloves?”

“What of that?” said Mr. Hill, still preserving his composure, as it was his custom to do as long as he could, when he saw his wife was ruffled.

“What of that, Mr. Hill! why, don’t you know that Limerick is in Ireland, Mr. Hill?”

“With all my heart, my dear.”

“Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would see our cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own daughter married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill.”

“God forbid!” cried Mr, Hill; and he stopped short and settled his wig.  Presently recovering himself, he added, “But, Mrs. Hill, the cathedral is not yet blown up; and our Phoebe is not yet married.”

“No; but what of that, Mr. Hill?  Forewarned is forearmed, as I told you before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me, and you see how it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case, you’ll see, Mr. Hill.”

“But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill,” said the verger, again settling his wig. “In that case and in this case!  I can’t understand a syllable of what you’ve been saying to me this half-hour.  In plain English, what is there the matter about Phoebe’s gloves?”

“In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing else, please to ask your daughter Phoebe who gave her those gloves.  Phoebe, who gave you those gloves?”

“I wish they were burnt,” said the husband, whose patience could endure no longer.  “Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phoebe?”

“Papa,” answered Phoebe, in a low voice, “they were a present from Mr. Brian O’Neill.”

“The Irish glover!” cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

“Yes,” resumed the mother; “very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you.  Now, you see, I had my reasons.”

“Take off the gloves directly:  I order you, Phoebe,” said her father, in his most peremptory tone.  “I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian O’Neill the first time I ever saw him.  He’s an Irishman, and that’s enough, and too much for me.  Off with the gloves, Phoebe!  When I order a thing, it must be done.”

Phoebe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them.  This objection was immediately removed by her mother’s pulling from her pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been whole, but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been long stretched by one who was twice the size of Phoebe, now hung in huge wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.

“But, papa,” said Phoebe, “why should we take a dislike to him because he is an Irishman?  Cannot an Irishman be a good man?”

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing; and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a significant look at Phoebe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially for a verger’s daughter.