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indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a politecourt.--Greenland--Greenland should always be the scene of thetramontane negociation.""I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. Youare got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn tobe behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for whatI have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I havealways thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do nowand then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for mypart, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up toLondon; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did notstay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expectedto know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never deniedthat you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to disputethat would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of apack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me."--"Which Ipromise you," says she, "I never will."--"Well, and I promise you,"returned he, "that I never will dispute the t'other."Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and thehorses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister tofollow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, theyboth agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well bedispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded inthe manner we have already seen.Chapter vii.In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at MrsMiller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have beforeseen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:--"O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone,sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone." "Hath anythinghappened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All that isbad," cries Honour: "Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh thatI should ever live to see this day!" At these words Jones turned paleas ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on--"O! Mr Jones, Ihave lost my lady for ever." "How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me.O, my dear Sophia!" "You may well call her so," said Honour; "she wasthe dearest lady to me. I shall never have such anotherplace."----"D--n your place!" cries Jones; "where is--what--what isbecome of my Sophia?" "Ay, to be sure," cries she, "servants may bed--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they areturned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not fleshand blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing whatbecomes of them." "If you have any pity, any compassion," cries Jones,"I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?" "Tobe sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me," answeredHonour; "I don't d--n you because you have lost the sweetest lady inthe world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy tobe pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress----"