"No, indeed, I think you talked very nicely; and I told Silas Jones that I never met a gentleman before who looked at things so exactly as I did."
This was dreadful. I saw that Miss Warren was full of suppressed merriment, and was glad that Mrs. Yocomb was in the parlor lighting the lamps.
"I suppose Mr. Jones was glad to hear what you said," I remarked, feeling that I must say something.
"He may have been, but he did not look so."
"Mr. Yocomb, you have your daughter's testimony that I was sober this afternoon, and since that time I have enjoyed nothing stronger than milk and the odor of your old-fashioned roses. If I was in a lamentable condition in the garden, Miss Warren was the cause, and so is wholly to blame."
"Emily Warren, does thee know that thy mother Eve made trouble in a garden?"
"I've not the least intention of taking Mr. Morton out of the garden. He may go back at once, and I have already suggested that you would give him plenty of hoeing and weeding there."
"I'm not so sure about that; I fear he'd make the same havoc in my garden that I'd make in his newspaper."
"Then you think an editor has no chance for Eden?"
"Thee had better talk to mother about that. If there's any chance for thee at all she'll give thee hope. Now, Emily Warren, we are all ready. Sing some hymns that will give us all hope—no, sing hymns of faith."