“Thank you, sister.—There, put it down, Dates; are the horses ready?”
“Just driving round, sir, I believe.”
“Why, Pierre,” said his mother, glancing out at the window, “are you going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old phaeton;—what do you take that Juggernaut out for?”
“Humor, sister, humor; I like it because it’s old-fashioned, and because the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally because a young lady by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a high regard for it. She vows she would like to be married in it.”
“Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher puts the coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and screws into the box. And you had better let him follow you in one of the farm wagons, with a spare axle and some boards.”
“No fear, sister; no fear;—I shall take the best of care of the old phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always remind me who it was that first rode in it.”
“I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre.”
“And who it was that next rode in it.”
“Bless you!—God bless you, my dear son!—always think of him and you can never err; yes, always think of your dear perfect father, Pierre.”
“Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go.”