Wall, Miss Whymper said she didn’t approve of the manner of giving. Her face wuz all drawed down into a curious sort of a long expression that she called religus and I called somethin’ that begins with “h-y-p-o”—and I don’t mean hypoey, either.
No, she couldn’t give, she said, because she always made a practise of not lettin’ her right hand know what her left hand give.
And I said, for I wuz kinder took aback, and didn’t think, I said to her, a glancin’ at her hands which wuz crossed in front of her, that I didn’t see how she managed it, unless she give when her right hand was asleep.
And she said she always gave secret.
And I said, “So I have always s’posed—very secret.”
I s’pose my tone was some sarcastic, for she says, “Don’t the Scripter command us to do so?”
Says I firmly, “I don’t believe the Scripter means to have us stand round talkin’ Bible, and let the Smedleys starve,” says I. “I s’pose it means not to boast of our good deeds.”
Says she, “I believe in takin’ the Scripter literal, and if I can’t git my stuff there entirely unbeknown to my right hand I sha’n’t give.”
“Wall,” says I, gettin’ up and movin’ towards the door, “you must do as you’re a mind to with fear and tremblin’.”
I said it pretty impressive, for I thought I would let her see I could quote Scripter as well as she could, if I sot out.