‘Salvation ain’t rubbish, mother, and this here earth’s a wale. A wale it is! And let me tell you, tho’ you are my missus, it don’t become you to put Brother Brown so much about. Why, while we was a-singing, I heard you clattering the dishes like a barge a-heaving anchor, and I see Brother Brown looking at the door out of the corner of his eyes. No, my lass, it don’t become you, and it ain’t settin’ a good example to little Madlin, who may be a wessel herself by and by.’ ‘Never, if I can help it,’ answered the woman. ‘We’ve wessels enough in _our_ family, what with you and Uncle Luke. Look at the mark o’ the dirty muddy feet on the clean carpet. I wish you’d meet outside, or in some other house but mine.’ ‘And I wish _you’d_ join us--it’d do you a power of good.’ Mrs. Peartree’s only answer was to toss her head and walk back into the kitchen. Uncle Luke followed very crestfallen and pitiful at the domestic disagreement; while Uncle Mark remained in the parlour, and showed the pictures in Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs’--a precious tome of tremendous antiquity--to Madeline. The child shuddered as she saw on every page flame consuming those who testified to the truth in evil times. ‘Uncle Mark,’ she said, ‘do they ever burn people _now?_’ ‘Not in this here world, my lass; only in t’other. And even then only the wery bad ones--them as hates their neighbours, and can come to no manner o’ good _without_ burning!’ Madeline did not answer, but she thought of Aunt Jane, who was the very essence of gentleness and good nature, but who was made utterly unregenerate by the intensity of her hate for Brother Brown. CHAPTER IV.--UNCLE MARK PARTS WITH THE OLD BARGE. When Madeline slipped from her bed on the Tuesday after Easter Monday, drew aside the chintz curtains from her little window and looked forth, she was astonished to see that the sunshine of the preceding days had been followed by a drizzling rain. The river looked black and very solemn as it slipped between its sedgy banks; the marshes, turning a white face to the sullen sky, looked dreary enough as they drank in the falling rain, and the red tiles on the houses of Grayfleet were redder than ever with the ceaseless washing of the showers. She had slept heavily, but had not yet wholly recovered from the depression caused by the preaching of the past few days, and of so many hours spent in the sanctuary of the best room. She dressed hastily, ran down stairs, and peeped into the parlour at the ‘weather cottage.’ Alas! Joan was under shelter, and Darby was outside. So it was to be a wet day indeed!