I remember exactly what I wore that evening; what it was, is of no consequence to any one but me. I have a few fragments of it yet, tatters mostly—but their colour never seems to fade.
And I can recall the errand that took me forth. It was to get some cream; for what we had didn't know when it was whipped. Such was the simple mission on which I started out, and I had a little pitcher in my hand; even then the days were almost past in which a Southern girl thought such a thing beneath her.
I hadn't gone very far when I saw Uncle Henry coming towards me. He was evidently homeward bound, returning from the train. And there was somebody with him; I could see a tall form, clothed in black, beside him—and uncle, to my surprise, was carrying a valise.
I don't know why it was, but instantly my pace slackened till I stood almost still. And once I turned and looked back towards the house; I think I held the pitcher out in front of me as if I were pointing with it. I really believe I was contemplating a retreat, but just then uncle sang out something in his cheery way; this let me know I was recognized and expected, whereat I walked calmly on to meet them.
As I came closer I kept my eyes fixed as steadfastly on uncle as though I had been looking for him all my life. I believe I bowed to him as he came up; how ridiculous it all seems now.
"Where are you off to, Helen?" he asked, glancing at the jug.
"I'm going to Humphrey's," I said, gazing into the empty pitcher; "going for cream—ours at home won't whip." Then I felt how silly this must sound to a stranger. For I knew, without being told, that this was no country elder, and that he had never heard of Pollocksville.
"Let me introduce Mr. Lord," said my uncle, paying no further attention to my remark; "the Reverend Mr. Lord—the friend of Dr. Paine's that Mr. Furvell told us about. He's to be our guest. Mr. Lord, this is my niece, Miss Helen Randall."
The stranger lifted his hat—it was a low-crowned felt—and bowed. His bow was deferential enough, but it lacked the Southern touch. Less low, less obeisant, sooner finished. And he seemed rather surprised when I extended my hand—I noticed how firm and strong was his—and he didn't bow low again when he took it, as a Southern man would have done. Nor did he hold his hat in his hand while we spoke together; this I remarked particularly.
"My name's not Lord, Mr. Lundy," he said with a smile as he turned from me; "it's Laird—not a great difference, I'll admit. Only that's the Scotch of it."