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He talked a brave bit about subjection, and how a woman ought to submit herself to her husband, and keep her head covered in places of public worship. And from that he passed on to say that ’twas to this beautiful submissiveness women owed their amazing power for good, and he, for his part, was going through Cornwall to tackle the womenfolk and teach ’em this beautiful lesson, and he’d warrant he’d leave the whole county a sight nearer righteousness than he found it. With that he broke out into extempory prayer for our dear sisters, as he called them, dusted his knees, and gave out the hymn, all as pleased as Punch.

Sal walked home from service alongside of her husband, very thoughtful. Deep down in the bottom of his heart he was afraid of her, and she knew it, though she made it a rule to treat him kindly. But knowing him for a monkey-spirited little man, and spiteful as well as funny, you could never be sure when he wouldn’t break out. To-night he no sooner gets inside his own door than says he with a dry sort of a chuckle:

“Powerful fine sermon, this evenin’. A man like that makes you think.”

“Ch’t!” says Sally, tossing her bonnet on to the easy chair and groping about for the tinder-box.

“Sort of doctrine that’s badly needed in Saltash,” says he. “But I’d ha’ bet ‘twould be wasted on you. Well, well, if you can’t understand logic, fit and fetch supper, that’s a good soul!”

“Ch’t!” said Sally again, paying no particular attention, but wondering what the dickens had become of the tinder-box. She couldn’t find it on the chimney-piece, so went off to fetch the kitchen one.

When she came back, there was my lord seated in the easy chair–that was hers by custom–and puffing away at his pipe–a thing not allowed until after supper. You see, he had collared the tinder-box when he first came in, and had hidden it from her.

Sal lit the lamp, quiet-like. “I s’pose you know you’re sittin’ ‘pon my best bonnet?” said she.

This took him aback. He jumped up, found the bonnet underneath him sure enough, and tossed it on to the table. “Gew-gaws!” said he, settling himself again and puffing. “Gew-gaws and frippery! That man’ll do good in this country; he’s badly wanted.”

Sal patted the straw of her bonnet into something like shape and smoothed out the ribbons. “If it’ll make you feel like a breadwinner,” said she, “there’s a loaf in the bread-pan. The cold meat and pickles are under lock and key, and we’ll talk o’ them later.” She fitted the bonnet on and began to tie the strings.

“You don’t tell me, Sarah, that you mean to go gadding out at this time of the evening?” cries he, a bit chapfallen, for he knew she carried the keys in an under-pocket beneath her skirt.

“And you don’t suppose,” answers she, “that I can spare the time to watch you play-actin’ in my best chair? No, no, my little man! Sit there and amuse yourself: what you do don’t make a ha’porth of odds. But there’s others to be considered, and I’m going to put an end to this nonsense afore it spreads.”

The time of the year, as I’ve told you, was near about midsummer, when a man can see to read print out-of-doors at nine o’clock. Service over, the preacher had set out for a stroll across the hayfields towards Trematon, to calm himself with a look at the scenery and the war-ships in the Hamoaze and the line of prison-hulks below, where in those days they kept the French prisoners. He was strolling back, with his hands clasped behind him under his coat-tails, when on the knap of the hill, between him and the town, he caught sight of a bevy of women seated among the hay-pooks–staid middle-aged women, all in dark shawls and bonnets, chattering there in the dusk. As he came along they all rose up together and dropped him a curtsy.