She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation.  This yielded her little consolation.

“At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow,” she exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair.  “I wish I’d a hit her.  If I’d broken my broom over her back I wouldn’t a cared so much.  And it’s all Mudge’s fault.  He’s the most shiftless man I ever see.  I’ll give him a dressing down, see if I don’t.”

Mrs. Mudge’s eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a dressing down she intended for her husband.

Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made his appearance.  He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm that awaited him.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.

“What’s amiss, now?” inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.

“What’s amiss?” blazed Mrs. Mudge.  “I’ll let you know.  Do you see this?”

She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.

“Broken your broom, have you?  You must have been careless.”

“Careless, was I?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically.  “Yes, of course, it’s always I that am in fault.”

“You haven’t broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?” asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet’s infirmity of temper, thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.

“If I had broken it over anybody’s back it would have been yours,” said the lady.

“Mine! what have I been doing?”

“It’s what you haven’t done,” said Mrs. Mudge.  “You’re about the laziest and most shiftless man I ever came across.”

“Come, what does all this mean?” demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a little angry in his turn.

“I’ll let you know.  Just look out of that window, will you?”

“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, innocently, “I don’t see anything in particular.”

“You don’t!” said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm.  “Then you’d better put on your glasses.  If you’d been here quarter of an hour ago, you’d have seen Brindle among the cabbages.”

“Did she do any harm?” asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.

“There’s scarcely a cabbage left,” returned Mrs. Mudge, purposely exaggerating the mischief done.

“If you had mended that fence, as I told you to do, time and again, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“You didn’t tell me but once,” said Mr. Mudge, trying to get up a feeble defence.

“Once should have been enough, and more than enough.  You expect me to slave myself to death in the house, and see to all your work besides.  If I’d known what a lazy, shiftless man you were, at the time I married you, I’d have cut off my right hand first.”

By this time Mr. Mudge had become angry.

“If you hadn’t married me, you’d a died an old maid,” he retorted.