“Sunday! That’s queerish, too. Squire Powell’s family be a sort o’ strict religious, I’ve heerd.”
“That’s just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they’re goin’ to; some curious kind o’ old worshippin’ place, that lie in a bend o’ the river, where carriages ha’ difficulty in gettin’ to it.”
“I think I know the one, an’ can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?”
“That ye could take ’em, an’ would. I know’d you hadn’t any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church wouldn’t mind its bein’ Sunday.”
“Sartinly not. Why should I?” asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. “Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for ’em here?”
“Yes; the man spoke o’ them comin’ here, an’ at a very early hour. Six o’clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o’ the family, and they’re to ha’ their breakfasts wi’ him, afore goin’ to church.”
“All right! I’ll be ready for ’em, come’s as early as they may.”
“In that case, my son; ye better get to your bed at once. Ye’ve had a hard day o’ it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o’ somethin’ ’fores you lie down?”
“Well, mother; I don’t mind. Just a glass o’ your elderberry.”
She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine—home made, and by her own hands.