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Wilson, the cross-grained vestryman, has an idea, which never fails by Saturday night to break out into a positive rush of conviction, that the minister is neglecting his studies and "going to Rome," if he doesn't in the course of the week go to Wilson and carry him the Church papers and take a look at the Wilson prize-pigs. So good Mr. Then Mr.
'Never you mind, mother, I says, 'there's neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe. You'd enjoy painting my prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?" "Very much," she said, "if I have time." "That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of.
What were all the shops dressed out in holly and mistletoe, what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what the fattest of prize-pigs to John, who could never more imagine a spare-rib on the table between Alice and him of a Sunday?
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