married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill."

"God forbid!" cried Mr. Hill; and he stopped short and settled his wig.
Presently recovering himself, he added, "But, Mrs. Hill, the cathedral
is not yet blown up; and our Phoebe is not yet married."

"No: but what of that, Mr. Hill? Forewarned is forearmed, as I told you
before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me, and you see how
it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case, you'll see, Mr.
Hill."

"But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill," said the
verger, again settling his wig. "_In that case and in this case!_ I
can't understand a syllable of what you've been saying to me this half
hour. In plain English, what is there the matter about Phoebe's gloves?"

"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."