“Good lan’!” cried Mrs. Cattermole. “An’ would it tell me whether my sister is through her sickness yet?”
“You may depend!”
“My! Thet’s jest great!” And Mrs. Cattermole eagerly inquired how one set about interrogating the oracle.
The deacon explained, adding that the parlor table would not do. It must be a rough deal table.
“Ah, the kitchin table,” said Mrs. Cattermole, walking into the elaborately laid trap.
“I dunno,” said the deacon, shaking his head. “Air you sure it ain’t too large for us to span around?”
“We could let the flaps down.”
The deacon chawed reflectively.
“Waal, it might,” he said, cautiously, at last. “There ain’t no harm in tryin’. We hedn’t ought to give up anythin’ without tryin’, I allus thinks. One never knows, hey?”
“I kinder think we ought to try,” said Mrs. Cattermole.