"Oh, Mr. Giddens," I broke in, my burning cheeks attesting that it was high time, "you don't know who's coming to be our guest to-day—we're going to have an elder."
"What on earth's that?" said Charlie, twirling an ebony cane about with his fingers.
"Oh, I forgot, you're not a Presbyterian. It's a man," I elucidated, "a kind of an unordained minister. And he's going to stay here while the Presbytery's meeting."
"Are they very solemn?" Charlie enquired; "they sound solemn. I suppose he's about the same thing as we call a warden," for Charlie was an Episcopalian.
"A notch higher," ventured Mr. Furvell; "they're in for life. I fancy an elder's more like a bishop than anything you've got in your church."
"And he's going on the bridge deck," I added, pointing upward through the porch roof.
"Helen means the attic," explained my Aunt Agnes; "and it does seem too bad—but we can't help it without turning everything upside down."
"He'll never notice it," Mr. Giddens remarked assuringly. "I know in Savannah, when we have those church pow-wows, half the householders have to sleep in the bath. Is this bishop from the country?"
"I believe so," informed Mr. Furvell. "I think the Pollocksville elder is to be your man."
"You'll have no end of fun with him," Charlie predicted. "Those old Rubes are great. I hope you've got your bootjack handy, Mr. Lundy," addressing my uncle; "the old chap will need it sure."