"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
is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be a good man?"

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it
was put to him, observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing;
and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a
significant look at Phoebe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk
or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially
for a verger's daughter.

We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by several
of the congregation, concerning the reason why Miss Phoebe Hill should
appear in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a Sunday. After
service was ended, the verger went, with great mystery, to examine the
hole under the foundation of the cathedral; and Mrs. Hill repaired, with