"Oh, Mr. Goodwin, sir, how could I help it when I thought he was
such a precious saint?" whimpered the old lady.

"Yes, sir! when 'his reverence' would be tired with delivering a
long-winded mid-day discourse, Mrs. Condiment, sir, would take him
into her own tent--make him lie down on her own sacred cot, and set
my niece to bathing his head with cologne and her maid to fanning
him, while she herself prepared an iced sherry cobbler for his
reverence! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Condiment, mum!"
said Old Hurricane, suddenly stopping before the poor old woman, in
angry scorn.

"Indeed, I'm sure if I'd known it was Black Donald, I'd no more have
suffered him inside of my tent than I would Satan!"

"Demmy, mum, you had Satan there as well! Who but Satan could have
tempted you all to disregard me, your lawful lord and master, as you
every one of you did for that wretch's sake! Hang it, parson, I
wasn't the master of my own house, nor head of my own family!
Precious Father Gray was! Black Donald was! Oh, you shall hear!"
cried Old Hurricane, in a frenzy.

"Pray, sir, be patient and do not blame the women for being no wiser
than you were yourself," said Mr. Goodwin.

"Tah! tah! tah! One act of folly is a contingency to which any man
may for once in his life be liable; but folly is the women's normal
condition! You shall hear! You shall hear! Hang it, sir, everybody
had to give way to Father Gray! Everything was for Father Gray!