A peculiar smile gleamed suddenly in the eyes of his sister. “Thank ye, Ruel, I’ve got all the help I need jest now,” she said. “Come out ’n’ take a look at my garden.”
She led the way to the rear of the house, and stepped before them into the trim little garden. It was of the old-fashioned sort, with vegetables growing in thrifty rows, and bunches of such flowers as phlox, sweet william, and bachelor’s buttons standing at the corners of the walks. It would have seemed a model of conventional primness, but for a curious figure seated on a three-legged stool, puffing tobacco smoke from a long Dutch pipe in among the branches of a rose-bush.
He might have been upwards of sixty; a dapper little man with a shining face, and a round head covered as to its top by an embroidered cap adorned with a crimson tassel. His waistcoat was of gay old-fashioned silk, across which was strung a huge gold chain, and a flaming topaz pin adorned the front of his calico shirt. At sight of the company issuing from the house he started from his seat and trotted up the walk to meet them, his hand extended and his face expressive of the most beaming cordiality.
Ruel Saxon, who was following his sister with a meekness of deportment which had sat uneasily upon him ever since the close of their discussion, started as his eye fell on this person, and threw up his head with a movement of surprise and irritation. “Good day, Solomon,” he said stiffly, as they came together, Miss Saxon having stepped aside to give free course for the meeting.
“Why, how d’y’ do, Deacon, how d’y’ do?” exclaimed the other, seizing the old gentleman’s hand, which, to tell the truth, had not been offered him, and shaking it furiously. “It’s been a terrible long time since you and I met. I—I was thinkin’ the other day I or’ to come round and see how you was gittin’ along.”
The deacon did not look overjoyed at the mention of the intended honor. “How long has Solomon been here?” he asked rather curtly, turning to his sister.
“Two weeks to-morrow,” she replied, with equal curtness. Then, turning to the little man, and from him to the girls, she said with marked politeness, “Mr. Ridgeway, these are my nieces, Lucia Saxon’s children. I guess you remember her.”
The little man pulled the cap from his head, revealing a crown as bald as a baby’s, and bowed himself up and down with the fervor of an Oriental. “Lucia Saxon? What, her that married the doctor and went out West? Why, sartin, sartin. She was one of the nicest gals I ever see, and the prettiest spoken. I—I guess your mother must ’av’ told you about me,” he added eagerly. “I took her home from spellin’ school once. She had spelled down everybody but me; but I was older’n she was, you know, a good deal older.” The delight of the remembrance seemed to overcome him, and he hopped first on one foot, then on the other, like an excited child.
Ruel Saxon’s face worked curiously while this performance lasted. “I don’t see but what your garden truck is getting on all right,” he said in the dryest of tones, “and I guess the girls ’n’ I’d better be going.”
He turned, making his way past the others, regardless of the fact that his footprints were left in the onion-bed which bordered the walk, and headed the line again toward the house.