“Bless me, dead! you don’t say your poor Uncle Bill is dead!” exclaimed Mr. Leyton, aghast at such news of an only brother.
“N—not exactly dead—half killed with the rheumatism, I mean, and the deacon, O, the deacon has gone to California.”
“What! Deacon Gracie gone to California—well that beats all! I’ll warrant old Mr. Stubbs is living!”
“Dead, a year ago.”
“Dead, is he? what killed him? I should like to know, for I thought him good for a hundred years.”
“Rheumatism, uncle.”
“Rheumatism again! what in the world do you live in such a climate for? Well, Reuben, how do you like your Cousin Lucy’s looks? I think she is some like your mother, who resembled the Darlings more than the Leytons.”
“I think Lucy is a decided Darling!” replied Cousin Reuben, with a mischievous glance at the fair object in question.
“But you look more like the Leytons, all but your hair; none of the Leytons ever had red hair!” continued the farmer, “and, excuse me, but I must say I could never abide it; however, I guess you will reconcile me to it. What makes you limp so, nephew, nothing serious I hope.”
“O, no, nothing but rheumatism, Uncle Andrew.”