"In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing else,
please to ask your daughter Phoebe who gave her those gloves. Phoebe,
who gave you those gloves?"

"I wish they were burnt," said the husband, whose patience could endure
no longer. "Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phoebe?"

"Papa," answered Phoebe, in a low voice, "they were a present from Mr.
Brian O'Neill."

"The Irish glover!" cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

"Yes," resumed the mother; "very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you. Now, you
see, I had my reasons."

"Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phoebe," said her father, in
his most peremptory tone. "I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian
O'Neill the first time I ever saw him. He's an Irishman, and that's
enough, and too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phoebe! When I order
a thing, it must be done."

Phoebe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and
gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them.
This objection was immediately removed by her mother's pulling from her
pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been whole,
but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been long
stretched by one who was twice the size of Phoebe, now hung in huge
wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.

"But, papa," said Phoebe, "why should we take a dislike to him because he