Edward's father: "They'll make a man of him in the navy."
Edward's mother: "We could have made a man of him in his own home if you hadn't been so weak."
Edward's father: "Yes, my dear, you are probably right, and if you wish me to admit that it's all my fault I do admit it here and now."
That was all that was said at that time in Edward's hearing. And it did not make a strong impression on him. Father was always admitting that he was at fault about something or other, and Edward himself often had to do the same thing, because when Dear Mother began to find fault it was the only way to stop her.
And it was the only way to stop Ruth and Sarah when, acting as their mother's duly accredited agents, they found fault with him, or when Martha the parlormaid did, or Ann the cook.
Fortunately for the boys, and for the Reverend Mr. Eaton himself, Mrs. Eaton was a great visitor. She believed it to be her duty to call on every one of her husband's parishioners at least once a month. The sight of the surrey at the door with the two long-tailed and long-maned black horses, Darkness and Shadow, George, the coachman, in the front seat holding the whip and reins, and Mrs. Eaton, with her long horse face, her protruding
