"But what will you do?"

"Go home and find Sam, of course."

"I don't see how Sam can help you. He did not help Emmy much: and
his wife will be there, remember."

There was no love lost between Sam's sisters and Sam's wife--a
practical little woman with a sharp tongue and a settled conviction
that her husband's relatives were little better than lunatics.
She understood the Rectory's strict rules of conduct as little as its
feckless poverty (for so she called it). That a household which held
its head so high should be content with a parlour furnished like a
barn, sit down to meals scarcely better than the day-labourers' about
them, and rest ignored by families of decent position in the
neighbourhood, puzzled and irritated her. "Better he paid his debts
and fed his children," was her answer when Sam put in a word for his
father's spiritual ambitions. Her slight awe of the Wesleys'
abilities--even _she_ could not deny them brains--only drove her to
entrench herself more strongly behind her practical wisdom; and she
never abandoned her position (which had saved her in a thousand
domestic arguments) that her sisters-in-law had been trained as
savages in the wilds. She had a habit of addressing them as
children: and her interference, some years before, between Emilia and
young Leybourne, had been conducted by letter addressed to Mr. and
Mrs. Wesley and without pretence of consulting Emilia's feelings.

Hetty pondered this for a moment, but without pausing in her
dressing.