"Well, about where you'll talk to them, then," amended Mrs. Borland. "My trouble's something the same. Only it's about the servants; at least it's about Letitia—she's the new one. It seems she belongs to a kind of an Adventist church, and she told me this morning that the Rev. Mr. Gurkle, the minister, is coming up to call on her some afternoon this week. And she asked where would she receive him! Receive him, mind you, David—she's going to receive! And she asked me where—asked me where she'd receive him."
"Well, that was natural enough. What did you tell her?" David asked, marvelling at the agitation of which the feminine mind is capable.
"Why, I told her where else would she receive him except in the kitchen—you don't suppose my maids are going to entertain their company in the parlour, do you, David?"
Mr. Borland turned his face reflectively towards the wall, gazing at the lurid painting of a three-year-old who had been the pride of last year's fair. Finally he spoke: "Yes, Martha, I reckon she will. I ain't much of an interfere!—but there ain't agoin' to to be no minister of the Gospel set down in the kitchen in this house. Black clothes is too easy stained. Besides, it ain't the way I was raised."
"But, David, surely you don't——"
"Yes, I do—that's jest exactly what I do. I know this Gurkle man—dropped into his church one night when some revival meetin's was goin' on. He's a little sawed-off fellow, with a wig—an' his cuffs has teeth like a bucksaw—an' he wears a white tie that looks like a horse's hames. An' he has an Adam's apple like a door-knocker; it kept goin' an' comin' that night, for there was a terrible lot of feelin' in the meetin'. An' Mr. Gurkle was a cryin' part of the time, an' he's that cross-eyed that the tears run over the bridge of his nose, both different ways. But I believe he's a good little man—an there ain't goin' to be no minister asquintin' round the kitchen in this house. He's goin' to the parlour, mother. The kitchen's all right for courtin'—come in there myself the other night when Mary had her steady company; there was three chairs—an' two of 'em was empty. That's all right for courtin'—it don't need no conveniences, nor no light, nor nothin'. Two young folks an' a little human natur's all you need for that. But prayin' an' sayin' catechism's hard enough at the best; so I reckon they'll have to do it in the parlour, mother," and Mr. Borland rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the window, patting his wife playfully on the shoulder as he passed.
"By George, here they are," he suddenly exclaimed; "I believe that's them comin' now."
"Who?" asked his consort, not with much zest of tone. She was still ruminating on her maid's religious advantages.
"It's the delegation—it's them two fellows that's goin' to present the claims of the union. They're turnin' in at the carriage gate, sure's you're livin'."
"I'm going up-stairs," announced Mrs. Borland. "I've got to fill out some invitations for an at-home next week—you don't mind my leaving, David?"