It was the first time Aunt Betsy had called a name so obnoxious to Kate, especially when, as in the present case, great emphasis was laid upon the rine, and from past experience Katy knew that her good aunt was displeased. Her first impulse was to accept the dish refused; but when she remembered her reason for refusing she said, laughingly, “Excuse me, Aunt Betsy, I love them still, but—but—well, the fact is, I am going by and by to run over and see Cousin Morris, inasmuch as he was not polite enough to come here, and you know it might not be so pleasant.”
“The land!” and Aunt Betsy brightened. “If that’s all, eat ’em. ’Tain’t no ways likely you’ll get near enough to him to make any difference—only turn your head when you shake hands.”
But Katy remained incorrigible, while Helen, who guessed that her impulsive sister was contemplating a warmer greeting of the doctor than a mere shaking of his hands, kindly turned the conversation by telling how Morris was improved by his tour abroad, and how much the poor people thought of him.
“He is very fine looking, too,” she said, whereupon Katy involuntarily exclaimed, “I wonder if he is as handsome as Wilford Cameron? Oh, I never wrote about him, did I?” and the little maiden began to blush as she stirred her tea industriously.
“Who is Wilford Cameron?” asked Mrs. Lennox.
“Oh, he’s Wilford Cameron, that’s all; lives on Fifth Avenue—is a lawyer—is very rich—a friend of Mrs. Woodhull, and was with us in our travels,” Kate answered rapidly, the red burning on her cheeks so brightly that Aunt Betsy innocently passed her a big feather fan, saying “she looked mighty hot.”
And Katy was warm, but whether from talking of Wilford Cameron or not none could tell. She said no more of him, but went on to speak of Morris, asking if it were true, as she had heard, that he built the new church in Silverton.
“Yes, and runs it, too,” Aunt Betsy answered, energetically, proceeding to tell “what goin’s on they had, with the minister shiftin’ his clothes every now and agin’ and the folks all talkin’ together. Morris got me in once,” she said, “and I thought meetin’ was let out half a dozen times, so much histin’ round as there was. I’d as soon go to a show, if it was a good one, and I told Morris so. He laughed and said I’d feel different when I knew ’em better; but needn’t tell me that prayers made up is as good as them as isn’t, though Morris, I do believe, will get to Heaven a long ways ahead of me, if he is a ’Piscopal.”
To this there was no response, and being launched on her favorite topic, Aunt Betsy continued:
“If you’ll believe it, Helen here is one of ’em, and has got a sight of ’Piscopal quirks into her head. Why, she and Morris sing that talkin’-like singin’ Sundays when the folks get up and Helen plays the accordeon.”