“Are you making that up, Job Starlight?”
“Well, I guess not. Flutters says something of that sort every time we're left alone together. It seems as though his heart was so overflowing that he just had to ease it whenever he got a chance.”
“Well, it's certainly very pleasant to have him feel like that.”
“Why, he just worships the ground—”
Starlight paused to shy a stone at a guinea hen that was encroaching on one of the flower beds—“your mother treads on.”
Starlight knew well enough that he ended this sentence quite differently from what Hazel had expected; but Hazel was wise enough not to show her surprise, and besides, if there was any worshipping to be done, she was about as glad to have Flutters worship the ground her mother trod on as that over which her little feet had travelled.
“No, but I've been thinking,” she said, resuming her own line of thought, “that, for all we know, Flutters may be a regular little heathen, for I have an idea that the mulattoes are a very savage tribe. Did you ever hear him say a word about religion, or what he believed, and things like that?”
Starlight scratched his head, by way of helping his memory. “Never a word, come to think of it.”
“Well, now, Starlight, that is very strange, and I believe I'll take him to church this very morning, and see how he acts.”
“Yes, let's,” said Starlight, taking most kindly to the project. “If he's never been in one, it will be awful fun to see how he takes it.”