There was nothing for it now but a straightforward declaration of the dreadful truth.
“Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “I mustn’t mislead you. It’s not a young man at all.”
Miss Jemima let fall into the water, with a sudden flop, the potato she was peeling, and faced her brother, knife in hand, with a look of wild astonishment in her eyes.
“Not a young man!” she almost shrieked, “What then?”
Her brother’s emphasis had been on the word man, and not on the word young.
“Well, my dear,” he replied, “a young——in fact, a young lady.”
Up went Miss Jemima’s hands.
“Thomas!”
“Yes, Jemima; such is the minister’s suggestion.”
Miss Jemima, who had resumed her work, proceeded to dig out the eye of a potato with unwonted prodigality.