Hugh was shown into the dining-room, where the table was already laid for dinner. It was evident that the Appleditches were well-to-do people. The room was full of what is called handsome furniture, in a high state of polish. Over the chimney-piece hung the portrait of a preacher in gown and bands, the most prominent of whose features were his cheeks. In a few minutes the host and hostess entered, followed by a pale-faced little boy, the owner of the voice of reproof. “Come here, Peetie,” said his mother, “and tell Mr. Sutherland what you have got.” She referred to some toy—no, not toy, for it was the Sabbath—to some book, probably. Peetie answered in a solemn voice, mouthing every vowel: “I’ve got five bags of gold in the Bank of England.” “Poor child!” said his mother, with a scornful giggle. “You wouldn’t have much to reckon on, if that were all.” Two or three gaily dressed riflemen passed the window. The poor fellows, unable to bear the look of their Sunday clothes, if they had any, after being used to their uniform, had come out in all its magnificence. “Ah!” said Mr. Appleditch, “that’s all very well in a state of nature; but when a man is once born into a state of grace, Mr. Sutherland—ah!” “Really,” responded Mrs. Appleditch, “the worldliness of the lower classes is quite awful. But they are spared for a day of wrath, poor things! I am sure that accident on the railway last Sabbath, might have been a warning to them all. After that they can’t say there is not a God that ruleth in the earth, and taketh vengeance for his broken Sabbaths.” “Mr.—. I don’t know your name,” said Peter, whose age Hugh had just been trying in vain to conjecture. “Mr. Sutherland,” said the mother. “Mr. Slubberman, are you a converted character?” resumed Peter. “Why do you ask me that, Master Peter?” said Hugh, trying to smile. “I think you look good, but mamma says she don’t think you are, because you say Sunday instead of Sabbath, and she always finds people who do are worldly.” Mrs. Appleditch turned red—not blushed, and said, quickly: “Peter shouldn’t repeat everything he hears.” “No more I do, ma. I haven’t told what you said about—” Here his mother caught him up, and carried him out of the room, saying: “You naughty boy! You shall go to bed.” “Oh, no, I shan’t!” “Yes, you shall. Here, Jane, take this naughty boy to bed.” “I’ll scream.” “Will you?” “Yes, I will!” And such a yell was there Of sudden and portentous birth, As if... ten cats were being cooked alive.