After this, Brother Mark rose, and in a few brief words, interspersed freely with Scriptural quotations, addressed the Brethren, taking for his theme the sacred character of the day, and greatly troubling the soul of little Madeline by gloomy references to dead sinners in their graves. After a short address to the same effect from Brother Strangeways, a waterside worthy with a very weatherbeaten face and a very weather wise sort of oratory, and another hymn from Brother Billy Hornblower, the service was concluded. Then, as a concluding solemnity, all shook hands, and the conversation suddenly grew secular. ‘Going down with the tide i’ the morning, mate?’ asked Brother Strangeways. ‘It be high water at four, and we be loaded since day afore yesterday.’ ‘Where for, mate?’ asked Uncle Mark. ‘Down right away Southam,’ was the reply. ‘Well, mate, _I_ be anchored at home with the old woman till Monday, and then I goes up with first flood to Crewsham Basin.’ ‘Lime?’ asked Brother Strangeways, sententiously. ‘Lime it is,’ answered Brother Mark, and forthwith the talk became professional. In the meantime, Brother Brown had drawn from his pocket several loose leaves or tracts, a species of torpedo which he was in the habit of dropping surreptitiously wherever he went, for the confusion of recalcitrant and unrepentant sinners. Selecting three of these, each of which had special reference to the forlorn spiritual condition of a person of the other sex, he proceeded to pin them on the parlour walls--one over the Shepherdess on the mantelpiece, a second under the picture of the Prodigal Son, a third under that of Susannah and the Elders. When this was done he shook hands with Uncle Mark, nodded to Uncle Luke, and passed out of the house; the other men, each with a ‘Good night, mate,’ for each of the two Pear-trees, immediately followed, solemnly, in single file. No sooner had the street door closed than Mrs. Pear-tree, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up to the elbow, entered the precincts of the chamber. Scorn was in every lineament of her countenance, but directly her eyes fell on the parlour walls, the scorn deepened to wrath. ‘Brother Brown’s been at them walls again,’ she cried. I wonder at _you_, Mark Peartree, to sit still and see him do it. Tracts agin your own wedded wife, stuck on the walls of her own best parlour--oh, I’d “tract” him!’ As she spoke, she made a dash at each of the papers in succession, and tore them angrily away. ‘My lass,’ said Uncle Mark, gruffly, ‘read’em--they’re left for your convarsion.’ ‘Stuff and rubbish!’