"Sil-van-us Par-due!" Five very distinct syllables from his mother greeted the speech wherein Master Silas expressed his appreciation of the action of Mrs Tabitha Hall. "Silas, I would you were as 'shamed of yourself as I am of you." "Well, Mother," responded Silas, with a twinkle in a pair of shining brown eyes, "if you'll run up yonder ladder and take half a look at Esdras, you'll not feel nigh so 'shamed of me at after!" This skilful diversion of the attack from himself to his brother--a feat wherein every son of Adam is as clever as his forefather--effected the end which Master Silvanus had proposed to himself. "Dear heart alive!" cried Mrs Pardue, in a flutter, "has that lad tore his self all o' pieces?" "There isn't many pieces left of him," calmly observed Silas. Mrs Pardue disappeared up the ladder, from which region presently came the sound of castigation, with its attendant howls from the sufferer, while Silas, having provided himself with a satisfactory cinder, proceeded, in defiance of Penuel's entreaties, to sketch a rather clever study of Mrs Tabitha Hall in the middle of his mother's newly washed table-cloth. "Eh, Pen, you'll never do no good wi' no lads!" lamented Mrs Bradbridge, rising to depart. "Nought never does lads a bit o' good save thrashing 'em. I'm truly thankful mine's both maids. They're a sight o' trouble, lads be. Good even." As Mistress Bradbridge went out, Mr Pardue was stepping in. "Silas, let be!" said his father quietly; and Silas made a face, but pocketed the cinder for future use. "Pen, where's Mother?" Mrs Pardue answered for herself by coming down the ladder. "There! I've given it Esdras: now, Silas, 'tis thy turn." No pussy cat could have worn an aspect of more exquisite meekness than Mr Silvanus Pardue at that moment, having dexterously twitched a towel so as to hide the work of art on which he had been engaged the moment before. "I've done nothing, Mother," he demurely observed, adding with conscious virtue, "I never tear my clothes." "You've made a pretty hole in your manners, my master," replied his mother. "Nicholas, what thinkest a lad to deserve that nicks Mistress Hall with the name of `Old Tabby'?" Nicholas Pardue made no answer in words, but silently withdrew the protecting towel, and disclosed the sufficiently accurate portrait of Mistress Tabitha on the table-cloth. "Thou weary gear of a pert, mischievous losel!" [wretch, rascal] cried Collet. "Thou shalt dine with Duke Humphrey [a proverbial expression for fasting] this morrow, and sup on birch broth, as I'm a living woman! My clean-washed linen that I've been a-toiling o'er ever since three o' the clock! Was there nought else to spoil but that, thou rascal?" "Oh ay, Mother," said Silas placidly. "There's your new partlet, and Pen's Sunday gown." Mrs Pardue's hand came down not lightly upon Silas.