“You ’pear kind o’ sober.”
“Well, ’twas a scare,” apologized Theophilus.
“But that’s all over now.”
“Yes, it’s all over,” assented the black-bearded lover, with a sigh. And plucking up animation, he added, “Mart has kind o’ took the bit in his teeth, hain’t he?”
“He has that. It’s a match now, if Persilla’s a mind to have him. The old lady, she’s turned round and set herself that way too. I shouldn’t be surprised if the’s an infair to this house by next Chris’mas.”
“No, neither would I,” said Theophilus, shaking his head, and making a grimace as if the action hurt him. He had a stirring, money-making disposition, while Mart Macauley’s tastes were those of a student, and he thought himself as good a match. But there was no accounting for the tricks of fate.
Philip laughed in a heartening and sympathetic fashion.
“I reckon the’ won’t be no chance for you next Sunday night, nor any other Sunday night this year, now,” he said.
“Mebby not,” said Theophilus. “But if Mart Macauley gits her, he gits the Queen of the Swamp, sure as you’re born. She’ll always be that, come what will.”