"You shouldn't bet, old woman, 'tain't moral," said Bainton, with a chuckle; "You ain't got ten to bet agin one--we couldn't spare so much. If she doos nothing else, she'll dekrate the church at 'Arvest 'Ome an' Christmas--that's wot leddies allus fusses about-- dekratin'. Lord, Lord! The mess they makes when they starts on it, an' the mischief they works! Tearin' down the ivy, scrattin' up the moss, pullin' an' grabbin' at the flowers wot's taken months to grow,--for all the wurrld as if they was cats out for a 'oliday. I tell ye it's been a speshel providence for us 'ere, that Passon Walden ain't got no wife,--if he 'ad, she'd a been at the dekratin' game long afore now. Our church would be jes' spoilt with a lot o' trails o' weed round it--but you mark my wurrd!--Miss Vancourt will be dekratin' the Saint in the coffin at 'Arvest 'Ome wi' corn and pertaters an' vegetable marrers, all a-growin' and a-blowin' afore we knows it. There ain't no sense o' fitness in the feminine natur!" Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly. "That's quite true!" she agreed; "If there were, I shouldn't have made Sunday pudding for a man who talks too much to eat it while it's hot. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Tom!--use it for tastin' jes' now an' agin!" Bainton took the hint and subsided into silent enjoyment of his food. Only once again he spoke in the course of the meal, and that was during the impressive pause between pudding and cheese. "When he knows as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked, Passon Walden's sure to do somethin'," he said. "Ay!" responded his wife thoughtfully; "he's sure to do something." "What d'ye think he'll do?" queried Bainton, somewhat anxiously. "Oh, you know best, Tom," replied his buxom partner, setting a flat Dutch cheese before him and a jug of foaming beer; "There ain't no sense o' fitness in ME, bein' a woman! You know best!" Bainton lowered his eyes sheepishly. As usual his better half had closed the argument unanswerably. VII