The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of Mrs. Norton were employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking a rapid survey of all these surroundings, the result of which was to impress her with a sort of awe for the mistress of this little realm.
“My stars!” said she, casting her eyes to the right and left, half rising from the luxurious couch to peep into one corner, and almost breaking her neck to dive into another, “my stars, deacon, if this don’t beat all I ever did see!”
But the deacon, with an air worthy of a funeral, shook his head, closed his eyes, and muttered,
“Vanity—vanity!”
The door opened, and Grace gliding in, sweetly apologized for her mother, whom a violent headache detained in her apartment.
“Well, I do wish I knew what they were!” again exclaimed Mrs. Humphreys, as she took the deacon’s arm and plodded thoughtfully homeward.
Then going to a dark cupboard under the stairs, she rummaged for some time among the jars and gallipots, and finally producing one marked “Raspberry Jam,” she told Naomi to put on her Sunday bonnet, and carry it to the cottage, and—
“Naomi, you may just as well ask Grace Norton what meeting she goes to.”
Delighted to make the acquaintance of Grace, Naomi threw on her bonnet and tripped lightly to the cottage, thinking little, we fear, of her mother’s last charge. At any rate it was omitted, and so the night-cap of Mrs. Humphreys again threw its broad frilling over an unsatisfied brow.
In the morning the deacon received a very neat note from Mrs. Norton, requesting to see him up on business.