Lucas whipped up.
“G’long, Billy! Ain’t dat jus’ Miss Jinny? I knowed it, I knowed it—if she ain’t gwine t’ bring Miz Wilyum Carter home! Ain’t dat Miss Jinny cl’ar down to de groun’? I declare to goodness if it don’ beat all.”
XXVIII
Sunday morning fell on the first day of September, and it was very hot—so hot that Mr. Carter refused to go to church. He was sitting in the shade of his library, in his shirt-sleeves and his stocking feet, when his wife and Emily returned from service. Emily went up to her room at once, but Mrs. Carter came into the library, took off her hat, and sat down to get cool. She was a little flushed and thoughtful.
“The Denbighs were not in church,” she remarked after a moment. “I don’t know that I ever knew Colonel Denbigh to miss a Sunday, except when his son died. Do you remember, Johnson?”
Mr. Carter nodded. He had stopped reading the Sunday paper and was slowly fanning himself with it.
“Sensible man to stay at home,” he grunted.
“People stare so at us!” Mrs. Carter complained. “Emily and I felt like a circus. I’m so glad we’ve got Leigh off to college at last!”
Mr. Carter made no reply to this, but after an interval he muttered something about a young donkey. Mrs. Carter sighed.
“Where’s William?” she asked in a whisper.