“Yes, I know you do. But are you still Scots? Why not Americans?”
“Of course Americans, but the Scotch still clings to us.”
“Like a burr, or like a true Scotch thistle. I have noticed that, and that some of you keep the Scotch pronunciation much more than others, yet every one of you say meenister.”
Agnes laughed at his pronunciation of the word. “And any one would know you for a Virginian, and you are proud of it; so are we proud of our Scotch-Irish. Polly is more Irish than Scotch, and that shows plainly, too.”
“It surely does.” And they both laughed at the memory of some of Polly’s expressions.
And when she looked back upon it Agnes found that riding to church with Parker Willett was not quite so serious an affair as Archie made it. She turned the matter over in her mind as she sat very still in church, but she gave a little sigh as she tried to fix her attention upon the long sermon. How was it faring with Archie that day? Was he thinking of her as he made his journey over the mountains?
CHAPTER IX
WHAT THE FRESHET BROUGHT
It was quite early in the spring before the willows that bordered the run at the foot of the garden had put on their first green, and long before the pawpaw bushes showed their tender shoots or their leathery-looking blossoms. Agnes was busy pounding at the hominy block. She was well wrapped up, for though a recent thaw had broken up the ice in the rivers, and had started the frost from out of the ground so that the red mud was thick everywhere, it was still cool out of doors. As the girl worked away, giving swift, deft, even strokes, she saw Parker Willett coming toward her. “The river is rising,” he said.
Agnes paused, and looked toward the run. The yellow mass of water in the river beyond was pitching and tossing, a turbulent tide. “I thought it had come to a standstill,” she said, “but I see it is rising fast.”