wler. 'In our young days, as
you say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improving
books, and a dull time we 'ad of it! I don't read novels myself now,
having other things to think about. But the world's gone round since
then, Jane. Even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictions
nowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual.'

'If they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; but
I've a right to judge for myself as well as they, I think, Solomon.'

'Exactly, but not for them too--that's what _you're_ doin', Jane. Who
the dickens are you, to go about groaning that Mark's a prodigal son,
or a lost sheep, or a goat, or one of those uncomplimentary animals,
all because he's written a book that everyone else is praising? Why
are you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, I'd like to
know? Here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, without
ever consulting _me_ (who, I think, Jane, I _do_ think, have acted so
as to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and all
for what?'

'I'm sure, Solomon,' said Mrs. Ashburn, with one or two hard sniffs
which were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'I'm sure I never
expected this from you, and you were quite as angry with Mark as any
of us.'

'Because I didn't know all--I was kep' in the dark. From what you said
I didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keep
him in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown as
it found him. Naterally I didn't care about _that_, when I'd hoped
he'd be a credit to me. But it appears he _is_ being a credit to
me--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circles
talking of him. I thought Sir Andrew, up at the Manor House, was
a-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on my
nephew, and I answered him precious short; but I begin to think now as
he meant it, and I went and made a fool of myself! All I ever asked of
Mark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a credit
to me, what do I care how he does it? Not _that_!'

At sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, Trixie was so far carried
away with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle's
puffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'Then
you won't give him up after all, will you, Uncle?' she cried; '_you_
don't think him a disgrace to you!'

Uncle Solomon looked round him with the sense that