—[Shakespeare.
The “second bell” had rung and yet I had not responded to the clamoring call to breakfast. An impatient rap at my door.
“Papa, papa,” from my oldest daughter. “There’s a gentleman waiting to see you.”
“Yes, yes, I am coming. I am not one of the seven sleepers.”
Who could it be? The early morning hour is sacred to beggars having elaborate and well-worn letters of introduction, some of which have seen service so long that the paper upon which they are written holds together as poorly as the clumsy tales of their bearers. Sometimes calls for funeral services come in the dewy morning, and oftener bashful young gentlemen stop in buggies and say with nervous energy, but trembling lips, “Dr. Snyder, I would like—we would like to have you do a little job for me—I mean for us. We’re going to get married to-morrow night and we’d like to have you tie the knot. We often come to hear you preach on Sunday evenings.” And then I recognize the sterner half of a handsome young couple who come rather late to church and sit on the back seat and keep up a religious conversation during the whole service.
All this time I am hurrying into my morning gown. It is a little torn in the sleeve, by the way, and when I am in haste I always strike the wrong side of the sleeve-lining. Down stairs I go, and in the hall sits a man who has none of the blushing uneasiness of the prospective bridegroom. My hand is cordially grasped in a palm that seems to bear enthusiastic honesty and simple affection in its very grip.
“Are you Dr. Snyder?”
“So people call me who don’t know the facts of the case,” I answer with a smile.
“John Snyder,” he persists, with increasing eagerness.
“Beyond[“Beyond] a question.”