‘Well,’ said the clerk, ‘you don’t call her the kind o’ woman to make mistakes in just trotten through the weekly service o’ God?  Why, as a rule she’s as right as I be myself.’

Mr. Springrove nodded again, and gave a twist to the screw of the press, followed in the movement by Gad at the other side; the two grinders expressing by looks of the greatest concern that, if Miss Aldclyffe were as right at church as the clerk, she must be right indeed.

‘Yes, as right in the service o’ God as I be myself,’ repeated the clerk.  ’But last Sunday, when we were in the tenth commandment, says she, “Incline our hearts to keep this law,” says she, when ’twas “Laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee,” all the church through.  Her eye was upon him—­she was quite lost—­“Hearts to keep this law,” says she; she was no more than a mere shadder at that tenth time—­a mere shadder.  You mi’t ha’ mouthed across to her “Laws in our hearts we beseech Thee,” fifty times over—­she’d never ha’ noticed ye.  She’s in love wi’ the man, that’s what she is.’

‘Then she’s a bigger stunpoll than I took her for,’ said Mr. Springrove.  ‘Why, she’s old enough to be his mother.’

’The row’ll be between her and that young Curlywig, you’ll see.  She won’t run the risk of that pretty face be-en near.’

‘Clerk Crickett, I d’ fancy you d’ know everything about everybody,’ said Gad.

‘Well so’s,’ said the clerk modestly.  ’I do know a little.  It comes to me.’

‘And I d’ know where from.’

‘Ah.’

‘That wife o’ thine.  She’s an entertainen woman, not to speak disrespectful.’

’She is:  and a winnen one.  Look at the husbands she’ve had—­God bless her!’

‘I wonder you could stand third in that list, Clerk Crickett,’ said Mr. Springrove.

’Well, ‘t has been a power o’ marvel to myself oftentimes.  Yes, matrimony do begin wi’ “Dearly beloved,” and ends wi’ “Amazement,” as the prayer-book says.  But what could I do, naibour Springrove?  ’Twas ordained to be.  Well do I call to mind what your poor lady said to me when I had just married.  “Ah, Mr. Crickett,” says she, “your wife will soon settle you as she did her other two:  here’s a glass o’ rum, for I shan’t see your poor face this time next year.”  I swallered the rum, called again next year, and said, “Mrs. Springrove, you gave me a glass o’ rum last year because I was going to die—­here I be alive still, you see.”  “Well said, clerk!  Here’s two glasses for you now, then,” says she.  “Thank you, mem,” I said, and swallered the rum.  Well, dang my old sides, next year I thought I’d call again and get three.  And call I did.  But she wouldn’t give me a drop o’ the commonest.  “No, clerk,” says she, “you be too tough for a woman’s pity.” . . .  Ah, poor soul, ’twas true enough!  Here be I, that was expected to die, alive and hard as a nail, you see, and there’s she moulderen in her grave.’

’I used to think ’twas your wife’s fate not to have a liven husband when I zid ’em die off so,’ said Gad.