“NICHOLAS BURKE, WHAT IN THE NAME OF CONSCIENCE DOES ALL THIS IDIOTIC PERFORMANCE MEAN, I’D LIKE TO KNOW?”
When the last guest had departed, Mrs. Burke proceeded to hunt up Nickey, who was dressed and sitting on the top of the corn-crib whittling a stick. His mother began:
“Nicholas Burke, what in the name of conscience does all this idiotic performance mean, I’d like to know?”
Nickey closed his knife. Gazing serenely down at his mother, he replied:
“How’d I know the blamed missionary push was goin’ to meet on the front porch, I’d like to know? Me and Oliver Wendell was just playin’ the house was on fire. We’d gone to bed in the front room, and then I told Ollie the fire was breakin’ out all around us, and the sparks was flyin’, and the stairs was burned away, and there was no way of ’scapin’ but to slide down the rope over the roof. I ’aint to blame for his nightshirt bein’ caught on a nail, and bein’ ripped off him. Maybe the ladies was awful shocked; but they laughed fit to split their sides just the same. Mr. Maxwell laughed louder than ’em all.”
Hepsey retired hastily, lest her face should relax its well-assumed severity.
Maxwell, in the meantime, felt it a part of his duty to console and soothe the ruffled feelings of his zealous and fluent parishioner, and to Virginia’s pride his offer of escort to Willow Bluff was ample reparation for the untoward interruption of her oratory. She 82 delivered into his hands, with sensitive upward glance, the receptacle containing her manuscript, and set a brisk pace, at which she insured the passing of the other guests along the road, making visible her triumph over circumstance and at the same time obviating untimely intrusion of a tete-a-tete conversation.
“You must have given a great deal of time and study to your subject,” remarked Maxwell politely.
“It is very near to my heart,” responded Virginia, in welling tones. “Home-life is, to me, almost a religion. Do you not feel, with me, that it is the most valuable of human qualities, Mr. Maxwell?”