“What has it got down to, now?” asked John, frowningly, on more than one morning as he was preparing to go out. And Mary, who had been made treasurer, could count it at a glance without taking it out of her purse.
One evening, when Narcisse called, he found no one at home but Mrs. Riley. The infant Mike had been stuffed with rice and milk and laid away to slumber. The Richlings would hardly be back in less than an hour.
“I’m so’y,” said Narcisse, with a baffled frown, as he sat down and Mrs. Riley took her seat opposite. “I came to ’epay ’em some moneys which he made me the loan—juz in a fwenly way. And I came to ’epay ’im. The sum-total, in fact—I suppose he nevva mentioned you about that, eh?”
“No, sir; but, still, if”—
“No, and so I can’t pay it to you. I’m so’y. Because I know he woon like it, I know, if he fine that you know he’s been bawing money to me. Well, Misses Wiley, in fact, thass a ve’y fine gen’leman and lady—that Mistoo and Misses Itchlin, in fact?”
“Well, now, Mr. Narcisse, ye’r about right? She’s just too good to live—and he’s not much better—ha! ha!” She checked her jesting mood. “Yes, sur, they’re very peaceable, quiet people. They’re just simply ferst tlass.”
“’Tis t’ue,” rejoined the Creole, fanning himself with his straw hat and looking at the Pope. “And they handsome and genial, as the lite’ati say on the noozpapeh. Seem like they almoze wedded to each otheh.”
“Well, now, sir, that’s the trooth!” She threw her open hand down with emphasis.
“And isn’t that as man and wife should be?”
“Yo’ mighty co’ect, Misses Wiley!” Narcisse gave his pretty head a little shake from side to side as he spoke.