“I can well believe you,” rejoined the Northerner, as he gratefully glanced at the spiritual countenance of his host. “Why should this old gentleman and I be enemies?” he thought. “I wish the war was over, and that North and South were once more firm friends.” He proceeded to light his pipe.
They began to talk agreeably, and the minister told several quaint stories of plantation life, while they smoked on, and the women cleared off the food from the table.
At last there came a knocking at the front door. The host left the kitchen, went into the hallway, and opened the door. He had a brief parley with some one; then the door closed, and he reentered the room. Watson thought he could distinguish the sound of a horse’s hoofs as an unseen person rode away.
“Who’s coming to see you this kind of night?” asked the wife. It was a natural question. It had once more begun to rain; there were flashes of lightning and occasional rumbles of thunder.
“A note of some kind from Farmer Jason,” explained the clergyman. “I hope his daughter is not sick again.”
“Perhaps the horse has the colic,” suggested one of the girls, who had gentle blue eyes like her father’s, “and he wants some of your ‘Equine Pills.’”
“Who brought the letter?” enquired the wife.
“Jason’s hired man—he said he hadn’t time to wait—had to be off with another letter to Farmer Lovejoy—said this letter would explain everything.”
“Then why don’t you open it, pa, instead of standing there looking at the outside; you act as if you were afraid of it,” spoke up the dark-eyed girl, who was evidently a damsel of some spirit.
“Here, you may read it yourself, Cynthia,” said her father, quite meekly, as if he had committed some grave offense. He handed the envelope to the dark-eyed girl. She tore it open, and glanced over the single sheet of paper inside. Then she gave a sharp cry of surprise, and darted a quick, penetrating glance at Watson. He felt uneasy, although he could not explain why he did.