And so it
was better he didn't, especially on that night when Mrs. M'Pherson had
been so extraordinarily condescending to her henchman as to set before
him a fine piece of pork, in recognition of his adherence to the
resolution of leaving the flesh-pots of Egypt--the old Church. It was a
dark night in January. There was a cheerful fire in the neat parlour,
and Janet was communicative, if not chatty, in good English, got in
George's kitchen at Kew.
"I would like all this better," said Aminadab, "if I had not that
churchyard to come through; and then there's that fearful-looking Cradle
in the hollow, with four lums like the stumpt posts of a child's
rocking-bed. What is it, Janet?--it's not a cow-house, nor a henhouse,
but a pure dungeon, fearful to free men, who might shudder to be
confined in it."
"What more?" said Janet. "Do you know anything more, Aminadab?"
"Yes; but I am eating Logie's pork, and don't like to say much."
"Never mind the pork, man; speak out. Do the folks down in the town say
anything, or shake their heads, or point their fingers?"
"Well, they say there's a human being confined in it," replied Aminadab.
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