“Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church,” said Susan contemptuously.  “She cries over every affecting thing the minister says.  But you do not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear.  Tears come cheaper.  She tried to talk to me one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty housekeeper; and I wanted to say, ’Every one knows that you have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. Leander Crawford!’ But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have too much respect for myself to condescend to argue with the likes of her.  But I could tell worse things than that of Mrs. Leander Crawford, if I was disposed to gossip.  And as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know what I would have said?  I would have said, ’I have no doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but you will never have the chance to spank a minister’s daughter either in this world or in that which is to come.’”

“If poor Faith had only been decently dressed,” lamented Miss Cornelia again, “it wouldn’t have been quite that bad.  But that dress looked dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform.”

“It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan.  “They are clean children.  They may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am not saying they are not, but they never forget to wash behind their ears.”

“The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday,” persisted Miss Cornelia.  “She will grow up just as careless and impractical as her father, believe me.  I suppose Carl would have known better if he hadn’t been sick.  I don’t know what was wrong with him, but I think it very likely he had been eating those blueberries that grew in the graveyard.  No wonder they made him sick.  If I was a Methodist I’d try to keep my graveyard cleaned up at least.”

“I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow on the dyke,” said Susan hopefully.  “I do not think any minister’s son would eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people.  You know it would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that grew on the dyke.”

“The worst of last night’s performance was the face Faith made made at somebody in the congregation before she started in,” said Miss Cornelia.  “Elder Clow declares she made it at him.  And did you hear that she was seen riding on a pig to-day?”

“I saw her.  Walter was with her.  I gave him a little—­a very little—­scolding about it.  He did not say much, but he gave me the impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was not to blame.”

“I do not not believe that, Mrs. Dr. dear,” cried Susan, up in arms.  “That is just Walter’s way—­to take the blame on himself.  But you know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that blessed child would never have thought of riding on a pig, even if he does write poetry.”