Miss Dean and I got along first-rate in our own native tongues, though once in awhile I felt that, visitor or no visitor, I had to sprunt up a little and tell my mind about Thomas J., and what a remarkable boy he always wuz, and what a man he’d made.
But I see they wuz so oneasy when they wuzn’t a-praisin’ Harry that I switched off the track as polite as I could and gin ’em a clear sweep. And from that time Happiness and Harry rained supreme in our settin’-room and piazza. And reminescenes wuz brung up and plans laid on and prophecies foretold, and all wuz Harry, Harry, Harry.
Wall, I see Miss Dean kep’ a-lookin’ at the clock, though I told her it lacked three hours of train time. But in the same cause of politeness I had held up through the day I sent Ury off a hour before it wuz time, and in due time he come back bearin’ a letter.
He brung it up to the stoop and handed it to the elder.
As the Elder took it he turned pale.
As the elder took it he turned pale—white as a piece of white cotton shirt, and sez he—
“This is not Harry’s hand!”
Miss Dean jest leaped forward and ketched holt of his hand.
“What is it? Not Harry’s writin’, what does it mean?”