“What's the matter?”
“Suppose,” said Mr. Patcher, huskily—“suppose she missed her train.”
Mrs. Parcher shook her head.
“Think not?” he said, brightening. “I ordered the livery-stable to have a carriage here in lots of time.”
“They did,” said Mrs. Parcher, severely. “About five dollars' worth.”
“Well, I don't mind that,” he returned, putting his feet up again. “After all, she was a mighty fine little girl in her way. The only trouble with me was that crowd of boys;—having to listen to them certainly liked to killed me, and I believe if she'd stayed just one more day I'd been a goner! Of all the dam boys I ever—” He paused, listening.
“Mr. Parcher!” a youthful voice repeated.
He rose, and, separating two of the vines which screened the end of the porch from the street, looked out. Two small maidens had paused upon the sidewalk, and were peering over the picket fence.
“Mr. Parcher,” said Jane, as soon as his head appeared between the vines—“Mr. Parcher, Miss Pratt's gone. She's gone away on the cars.”
“You think so?” he asked, gravely.