“That they never catch any fish!” said she, sternly. “It's no weather for you to go tramping about in the wet grass. You made fuss enough about your lumbago last week, and I suppose you don't want it back again. Besides,”--and here her tongue grew authoritative,--“I have got up the books.” And with these words she threw on the table a number of little greasy-looking volumes, over which poor Barrington's sad glances wandered, pretty much as might a victim's over the thumb-screws and the flesh-nippers of the Holy Inquisition. “I've a slight touch of a headache this morning, Dinah.” “It won't be cured by going out in the rain. Sit down there,” said she, peremptorily, “and see with your own eyes how much longer your means will enable you to continue these habits of waste and extravagance.” “These what?” said he, perfectly astounded. “These habits of waste and extravagance, Peter Barring-ton. I repeat my words.” Had a venerable divine, being asked on the conclusion of an edifying discourse, for how much longer it might be his intention to persist in such ribaldries, his astonishment could scarce have been greater than Barrington's. “Why, sister Dinah, are we not keeping an inn? Is not this the 'Fisherman's Home'?” “I should think it is, Peter,” said she, with scorn. “I suspect he finds it so. A very excellent name for it it is!” “Must I own that I don't understand you, Dinah?” “Of course you don't. You never did all your life. You never knew you were wet till you were half drowned, and that's what the world calls having such an amiable disposition! Ain't your friends nice friends? They are always telling you how generous you are,--how free-handed,--how benevolent. What a heart he has! Ay, but thank Providence there's very little of that charming docility about _me_, is there?” “None, Dinah,--none,” said he, not in the least suspecting to what he was bearing testimony. She became crimson in a minute, and in a tone of some emotion said, “And if there had been, where should you and where should I be to-day? On the parish, Peter Barrington,--on the parish; for it 's neither _your_ head nor _your_ hands would have saved us from it.” “You're right, Dinah; you're right there. You never spoke a truer word.” And his voice trembled as he said it. “I did n't mean _that_, Peter,” said she, eagerly; “but you are too confiding, too trustful. Perhaps it takes a woman to detect all the little wiles and snares that entangle us in our daily life?” “Perhaps it does,” said he, with a deep sigh. “At all events, you needn't sigh over it, Peter Barring-ton. It's not one of those blemishes in human nature that have to be deplored so feelingly. I hope women are as good as men.” “Fifty thousand times better, in every quality of kindliness and generosity.”