My mother, who was accustomed to act as umpire in these little contests, turned a humorous eye towards Aunt Agnes. The latter, we all knew, was fumbling frantically for some response which seemed to elude her; my mother's pose reminded me a little of the man who had held the watch the week before, down at Jacksonville, when two gentlemen of the ring had paid their respects to each other. I knew all about how they're counted out if they don't show up within a certain time; yet it isn't likely I'd have known anything about it if Mr. Furvell hadn't warned us from the pulpit that we mustn't read the account of the affair—he said the details were shocking. So I had to wait till Aunt Agnes was finished with the paper.
I really do not know how the argument concluded, for at this juncture a very sable face appeared suddenly at the door and a liquid voice announced: "Please, Miss Helen, Misteh Slocum's waitin' fo' yeh in de parluh."
I was ready for the intimation, for I had heard the old brass knocker muttering a minute or two before—and I was just at the age when I knew the different knocks of different gallants. And not a few of these latter were wont to lift that frowning brass face on our front door and let it fall again—the wonderful thing about it was, that the oftener they came the more gentle grew the knock—but this is the way with all knockers at all Southern homes that shelter comely maidens. And I am neither modest enough nor untruthful enough to deny that I deserved the adjective aforesaid—especially as this story may never see the light till my eyes give it back no more.
"I'm hoping he'll be a minister," I volunteered, as I turned a moment at the door.
"Why?" cried my mother.
"What for?" chimed my Aunt Agnes.
"Well," I answered, "elders pray too long—I went to sleep one night at worship when that elder from Hickory was here at the Synod. And he said I was a devout worshipper, don't you mind, when I kept kneeling after you all got up. I don't think that was very nice for a religious man to say," I averred, tugging at a reluctant glove.
"He wouldn't think so if he saw you now—starting for a dance," suggested my Aunt Agnes. "But you look mighty sweet, honey—though I don't believe you've got enough on for a chilly night like this. Be sure you have something round you when you're coming home."
"Mr. Slocum will see to that," assured Uncle Henry, his expression interpreting his words.
"Hush," said my mother chidingly; "the child doesn't know what you mean." Every word of that evening's conversation is vivid to me yet, as it well might be; and I have often wondered why my mother held such a sanguine view of my simplicity.