"I'm not reckonin' on much fun with him," Uncle Henry answered dryly; "that's not our custom with our guests. And I haven't got the instrument you mention—but I'll pull his boots off myself, if he wants any help."
There was just the slightest flush on uncle's cheek; hospitality was a sacred thing to him.
"Oh, by the way," broke in Mr. Furvell, willing enough to turn the talk into another channel, "I've just had word that we're going to have an outsider at the Presbytery. Dr. Paine notified me to-day that he's bringing an intimate friend that's visiting him for a while. I rather think he's from Edinburgh—but I'm not sure of that. In any case, he's a cleric—and one of our own kind. A young man, I rather think; he wants to see something of our Southern life, Dr. Paine's letter said."
"Where's he going to stay?" Aunt Agnes enquired briskly. My aunt kept the census of hosts and visitors for half the town.
"Well, that's just what I was going to speak about," replied the minister. "You see, we'll have to get a place extra for him—unless he can be billeted along with Dr. Paine, which I think rather unlikely. And, if you all prefer it, I could send the elder somewhere else, and give you the foreigner—just as you like, though."
"Whatever you think best," said Aunt Agnes, drawing her chair a little closer. Such problems were the luxuries of life to her.
I know not what impulse prompted me, but I recall, as though it all happened yesterday, the quick way I spoke up and said: "I believe we'll take the Scotchman—I vote for the clergy."
"You can't," said my mother archly smiling. "You're not attentive enough to them when we have them here—your preference runs too distinctly along other lines."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said I. "Anyhow, I'm for the clergy this time; I reckon it's the Scotch flavour that catches me—and then perhaps he knew Carlyle," for this latter had been long a favourite of mine and I had enjoyed many a good thrill—and many a good snooze—over his books.
Mother smiled. "That's a little conceit of my daughter's," she said apologetically to our visitors; "she thinks she'll write a book herself some day." Ah me! how little she knew then that my only book would be the story of my life, or so much of it as is worth the telling. And as I write the words I wonder if any one will ever really read them—in a real book.