Three o’clock! Admonishingly rang out the hour, the jovial face of the clock looking sterner than was its wont. It glowered now like a preacher in his pulpit upon a sinful congregation. Enough of “snatch-and-catch’em;” 70 enough of Hull’s Victory or the Opera Reel; let the weary fiddler descend from his bull-rush chair, for soon the touch of dawn will be seen in the eastern sky! The merry-making began to wane and already the sound of wagon-wheels rattled over the log road away from the tavern. Yes, they were singing, and, as Hepsibeth leaned her head on Josiah’s shoulder, they uplifted their voices in the good old orthodox hymn, “Come, Ye Sinners,” for thus they courted and worshiped in olden times.
“Good-night, every one!” said a sweet voice, as Constance passed calmly on, with not a ruffle mussed.
“Good-night,” answered the patroon, a sparkle in his eyes. “I was truly a booby.”
“What can you mean?” she laughed.
“There’s many a slip ’twixt––lip and lip!” exclaimed Susan.
With heightened color the young girl turned, and as she did so her look rested on the soldier. His glance was cold, almost strange, and, meeting it, she half-started and then smiled, slowly mounting the stairs. He looked away, but the patroon never took his eyes from her until she had vanished. Afar, rising and falling on the clear air, sounded the voices of the singers:
|
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him all creatures here below;” |
and finally, softer and softer, until the melody melted into silence:
| “Praise Him above, ye Heavenly H-o-s-t––” |