The clergyman thrust past him with a "Pardon me, sir," and addressed
the woman. "What's the matter, Nan? Is the bridegroom fighting
shy?"

"Please your reverence, he tells me he's the father of twelve."

"H'm." The priest cocked his head on one side. "You find that an
impediment?"

"_And_ a married man, your reverence."

"Then he has the laughing side of you, this time," said his
reverence, promptly, and took snuff. "Tut, tut, woman--down with
your fists, button up your bodice, and take disappointment with a
better grace. Come, no nonsense, or you'll start me asking what's
become of the last man I married ye to."

"Sir," interposed my uncle, "I know not the head or tail of this
quarrel. But this man Priske is my brother's servant, and if he told
the lady what she alleges, for the credit of the family I must
correct him. In sober truth he's a bachelor, and no more the father
of twelve than I am."

This address, delivered with entire simplicity, set the whole company
gasping. Most of all it seemed to astonish the woman, who could not
be expected to know that my uncle's chivalry accepted all her sex,
the lowest with the highest, in the image in which God made it and
without defacement.

The priest was the first to recover himself. "My good sir," said he,