"Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would see our cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own daughter married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill." "God forbid!" cried Mr, Hill; and he stopped short and settled his wig. Presently recovering himself, he added, "But, Mrs. Hill, the cathedral is not yet blown up; and our Phœbe is not yet married." "No; but what of that, Mr. Hill? Forewarned is forearmed, as I told you before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me, and you see how it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case, you'll see, Mr. Hill." "But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill," said the verger, again settling his wig. "_In that case and in this case_! I can't understand a syllable of what you've been saying to me this half- hour. In plain English, what is there the matter about Phœbe's gloves?" "In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing else, please to ask your daughter Phœbe who gave her those gloves. Phœbe, who gave you those gloves?" "I wish they were burnt," said the husband, whose patience could endure no longer. "Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phœbe?" "Papa," answered Phœbe, in a low voice, "they were a present from Mr. Brian O'Neill." "The Irish glover!" cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror. "Yes," resumed the mother; "very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you. Now, you see, I had my reasons." "Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phœbe," said her father, in his most peremptory tone. "I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian O'Neill the first time I ever saw him. He's an Irishman, and that's enough, and too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phœbe! When I order a thing, it must be done." Phœbe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them. This objection was immediately removed by her mother's pulling from her pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been whole, but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been long stretched by one who was twice the size of Phœbe, now hung in huge wrinkles upon her well-turned arms. "But, papa," said Phœbe, "why should we take a dislike to him because he is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be a good man?" The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing; and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a significant look at Phœbe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially for a verger's daughter.