They arose peaceably in the morning. Andrew was a civil, well-conducted man, and but for Horned Rams would have been a pattern to three parts of Honey Fair. He liked to be dressed well on Sunday and to attend the cathedral with his two children: he was very fond of listening to the chanting Mrs. Brumm--as was the custom generally with the wives of Honey Fair--stayed at home to cook the dinner. Andrew was accustomed to do many odd jobs on the Sunday morning, to save his wife trouble. He cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed his clothes, filled the coal-box, and made himself useful in sundry other ways. All this done, they sat down to breakfast with the two children, the unfortunate Jacky less black than he had been the previous night. "Now, Jacky," said Brumm, when the meal was over, "get yourself ready; it has gone ten. Polly too." "It's a'most too cold for Polly this morning," said Mrs. Brumm. "Not a bit on't. The walk'll do her good, and give her an appetite for dinner. What is for dinner, Bell? I asked you before, but you didn't answer." "It ain't much thanks to you as there's anything," retorted Mrs. Brumm, who rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arabella. "You plant yourself again at the Horned Ram, and see if I worries myself to come after you for money. I'll starve on the Sunday first." "I can't think what goes of your money," returned Andrew. "There had not used to be this fuss if I stopped out for half an hour on the Saturday night, with my wages in my pocket. Where does yours go to?" "It goes in necessaries," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. But not caring for reasons of her own to pursue this particular topic, she turned to that of the dinner. "I have half a shoulder of mutton, and I'm going to take it to the bake'us with a batter pudden under it, and to boil the taters at home." "That's capital!" returned Andrew, gently rubbing his hands. "There's nothing nicer than baked mutton and a batter pudden. Jacky, brush your hair well: it's as rough as bristles." "I had to use a handful of soda to get the dye out," said Mrs. Brumm. "Soda's awful stuff for making the hair rough." Andrew slipped out to the Honey Fair barber, who did an extensive business on Sunday morning, to be shaved. When he returned he went up to wash and dress, and finally uncovered a deal box where he was accustomed to find his clean shirt. With all Mrs. Brumm's faults she had neat ways. The shirt was not there. "Bell, where's my clean shirt?" he called out from the top of the stairs. Mrs. Bell Brumm had been listening for the words and received them with satisfaction. She nodded, winked, and went through a little pantomime of ecstasy, to the intense delight of the children, who were in the secret, and nodded and winked with her. "Clean shirt?" she called back again, as if not understanding. "My Sunday shirt ain't here." "You haven't got no Sunday shirt to-day." Andrew Brumm descended the stairs in consternation. "No Sunday shirt!" he repeated.