“You’ve been a long time gone, Thomas,” she said complacently—for Miss Jemima was in one of her most amiable moods.
“Yes; we found many things to talk about.”
“Well, what did he say on the secretary question?”
“Oh, he has recommended one to me who, he thinks, will do first-rate.”
“Ah! and who is the young man? For of course he is young; all secretaries are.”
“The person lives in Birmingham,” was the guarded reply, “and goes by the name of Owen.”
Miss Jemima felt by instinct that her brother was keeping something back. She shot at him a keen, swift glance, and then resumed the peeling of the potato just then in hand, which operation she effected with such extreme care, that it was a very attenuated strip of peeling which fell curling from her knife into the brown water in the bowl beneath.
“What is this young man’s other name?” she calmly asked.
“Well, now, I don’t know,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a shrewd smile.
“Just like you men!” whipped out Miss Jemima, pausing in her work; “but I suppose, as the minister recommends him, it will be all right.”