I had gone but a little way when I suddenly stopped, looked back, calculated. For an idea had come to me—and I knew a short cut home. A hasty flight through a neighbour's yard, straight under an old pine tree that George Washington was credited with planting, along a narrow alley that led to our back garden, would bring me there before those deliberate two would have arrived.
Three minutes later I was in the sitting-room, breathless almost. "It's a minister," I said, "a young minister—and he's Scotch as heather." I have often wondered since where I got this expression; but I believe I heard it from old McLaughlin. He was the only Scotchman in our whole town, and he always wore a shawl to church, and put a penny on the plate.
"Who?" said Aunt Agnes and my mother in unison. They were both in black silk, for they knew it was train time. And my aunt had donned two real tortoise-shell combs that came from Tiffany's.
"Our elder," I gasped, standing the pitcher on the mantel; "he isn't an elder at all. He's a minister—with one of those vests that fit around the throat like a sweater—the same as the Episcopalians wear—and fair hair. And I ran back to tell you not to put him in the attic," I concluded, lifting my eyes heavenward as I spoke.
"A sweater vest and fair hair!" my aunt echoed in mock gravity; "is that all he has on?"
"Not put him in the attic?" exclaimed my mother, scornful of merriment at such an hour; "why shouldn't we put him there—where would you have him put?"
"Any of the rooms," I answered promptly; "my room."
"Mercy, child, we'd have to get all your things out of it and turn everything upside down," my mother returned seriously, "and they'll be here in a few minutes. What happened to the elder?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. Uncle did say something about why he didn't come—I think he's sick, or dead, or something. But I'm not sure. And we can easily keep Mr. Laird down-stairs till we get things changed around. It wouldn't need much—men never look into drawers and closets like women do," I assured them.
"Mr. Laird!" echoed both my auditors almost in chorus. "Is that his name?"