His suspicions had not deceived him.

There was Mr.Thorpe himself walking sternly homeward through the rain, before church was over.

He led by the hand "Master Zack," who was trotting along under protest, with his hat half off his head, hanging as far back from his father's side as he possibly could, and howling all the time at the utmost pitch of a very powerful pair of lungs.
Mr.Thorpe stopped as he passed the page, and snatched the umbrella out of Snoxell's hand, with unaccustomed impetuity; said sharply, "Go to your mistress, go on to the church;" and then resumed his road home, dragging his son after him faster than ever.
"Snoxy! Snoxy!" screamed Master Zack, turning round towards the page, so that he tripped himself up and fell against his father's legs at every third step; "I've been a naughty boy at church!" "Ah! you look like it, you do," muttered Snoxell to himself sarcastically, as he went on.

With that expression of opinion, the page approached the church portico, and waited sulkily among his fellow servants and their umbrellas for the congregation to come out.
When Mr.Goodworth and Mrs.Thorpe left the church, the old gentleman, regardless of appearances, seized eagerly on the despised gingham umbrella, because it was the largest he could get, and took his daughter home under it in triumph.

Mrs.Thorpe was very silent, and sighed dolefully once or twice, when her father's attention wandered from her to the people passing along the street.
"You're fretting about Zack," said the old gentleman, looking round suddenly at his daughter.