"
Parson Polwhele was taken aback for the moment by reason that he'd
pretty nigh kissed the fellow by accident; and before he could
recover, Jim the Guard leans out over the darkness, and, says he,
speaking down: "Very sorry, Parson, but your missus wasn't taken very
well t'other side of St. Germans, and we've been forced to leave her
'pon the road."
Now, the Parson doted on his wife, as well he might. He was a very
learned man, you must know, and wrote a thundering great history of
Cornwall: but outside of book-learning his head rambled terribly, and
Mrs. Polwhele managed him in all the little business of life.
"'Tis like looking after a museum," she used to declare. "I don't
understand the contents, I'm thankful to say; but, please God, I can
keep 'em dusted." A better-suited couple you couldn't find, nor a
more affectionate; and whenever Mrs. Polwhele tripped it to Plymouth,
the Parson would be at Falmouth to welcome her back, and they'd sleep
the night at the "Crown and Anchor" and drive home to Manaccan next
morning.
"Not taken well?" cried the Parson. "Oh, my poor Mary--my poor, dear
Mary!"
"'Tisn' so bad as all that," says Jim, as soothing as he could; but
he thought it best to tell nothing about the rumpus.
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