Who was Emily Warren anyway, and why must she be at the farmhouse at a time when I so earnestly wished "the coast clear?" The perverse world at last was asserting its true self, and there was promise of a disturbance in my shining tide. Moreover, I was provoked that the one remark of this Emily Warren had point to it, while my perfect flower of womanhood had revealed nothing definitely save a good appetite, and that she had no premonitions that this was the day of her destiny.
CHAPTER IV
REALITY
"Father," said my fair ideal abruptly, as if a bright idea had just struck her, "did thee notice that Friend Jones's rockaway had been painted and all fixed up? I guess he rather liked our keeping him there before all the meeting."
"Mother, I hope thee'll be moved to preach about the charity that thinketh no evil," said her father gravely.
The young girl tossed her head slightly as she asserted, "Araminta
Jones liked it anyway. Any one could see that."
"And any one need not have seen it also," her mother said, with a pained look. Then she added, in a low aside, as we rose from the table, "Thee certainly need not have spoken about thy friend's folly."
The daughter apparently gave little heed to her mother's rebuke, and a trivial remark a moment later proved that she was thinking of something else.
"Adah, thee can entertain Richard Morton for a time, while mother attends to the things," said her father.
The alacrity with which she complied was flattering at least, and she led me out on the piazza, that corresponded with my day-dream.