The woman was still more visibly embarrassed.
"I—I don't know," she murmured; then in stronger tones, "The one that looked like him did."
"Are there two?" he asked in stupid amazement.
Miss Wetherby laughed uneasily, then she sighed.
"Well, ter tell the truth, Mr. Wiggins, I s'pose there ain't; but sometimes I think there must be. I'll send Robert down ter the rehearsal to-night, and you can see what ye can do with him." And with this Mr. Wiggins was forced to be content.
Bobby sang on Sunday. The little church was full to the doors. Bobby was already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity as to what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer in the way of a sacred song. The "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much to the sorrow of Ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered again into the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation home in an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage.
At breakfast time Monday morning, Bobby came downstairs with his brown paper parcel under his arm. Ann glanced at his woeful face, then went out into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply.
"Well, marm, I've had a bully time—-sure's a gun," said the boy wistfully, following her.
Miss Wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; then she straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side.
"Robert," she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth of feeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day—now mind what I say! Take them things upstairs. Quick—breakfast's all ready!"