The real truth of the case had dawned upon Miss Butterworth, and it had rankled in the breast of Mrs.Snow from the beginning of his pointless talk.

He was afraid of offending Robert Belcher, for not only did his church need repairing, but his salary was in arrears, and the wolf that had chased so many up the long hill to what was popularly known as Tom Buffum's Boarding House he had heard many a night, while his family was sleeping, howling with menace in the distance.
Mrs.Snow rebelled, in every part of her nature, against the power which had cowed her reverend companion.

There is nothing that so goads a spirited woman to madness as the realization that any man controls her husband.

He may be subservient to her--a cuckold even--but to be mated with a man whose soul is neither his own nor wholly hers, is to her the torment of torments.
"I wish Robert Belcher was hanged," said Mrs.Snow, spitefully.
"Amen! and my name is Butterworth," responded that lady, making sure that there should be no mistake as to the responsibility for the utterance.
"Why, mother!" exclaimed the three hisses Snow, in wonder.
"And drawn and quartered!" added Mrs.Snow, emphatically.
"Amen, again!" responded Miss Butterworth.
"Mrs.Snow! my dear! You forget that you are a Christian pastor's wife, and that there is a stranger present." "No, that is just what I don't forget," said Mrs.Snow.

"I see a Christian pastor afraid of a man of the world, who cares no more about Christianity than he does about a pair of old shoes, and who patronizes it for the sake of shutting its mouth against him.