“Wimmin are upstairs with the bride, and the men—” Jim hesitated and glanced toward the kitchen door.
“Carry me-e-e-e ba-a-ack to ol’ Virginny,” wailed a tenor, while a baritone roared, “While the old mill wheel turns ’round, I’ll love you, Ma-a-a-a-ary; when the bee-e-e-e-es—”
And then came the reedy falsetto of Hozie Wheeler—
“Da-a-a-arling, I am growing o-o-o-old.”
The minister nodded slowly.
“The perfectly natural reaction, Jim. The sentiment contained in corn and rye.”
“Like a little shot, Henry?”
“Not now, Jim; later, perhaps. Is the groom here yet?”
“Not yet. Him and Honey ought to be here any minute now.”
The women were coming back down the stairs, and the minister went to shake hands with them. Aunt Emma cocked one ear toward the kitchen, and a look of consternation crossed her face. She grasped Jim by the arm and whispered in his ear: