“You don't mean to tell me you walked out heer this mornin',” she cried. “Lord have mercy!”
“I don't know as I've prepared any set speech on the subject,” said her husband, testily; “but I walked. I could 'a' gone to a livery an' ordered out a team, but I believe thar's more'n one way o' wearin' sackcloth an' ashes, an' the sooner I begin the better I 'll feel.” Abner Daniel winked; the scriptural allusion appealed to his fancy, and he smiled impulsively.
“That thar is,” he said. “Thar's a whole way an' a half way. Some folks jest wear it next to the skin whar it don't show, with broadcloth ur silk on the outside. They think ef it scratches a little that 'll satisfy the Lord an' hoodwink other folks. But I believe He meant it to be whole hog or none.”
Mrs. Bishop was deaf to this philosophy. “I don't see,” she said, in her own field of reflection—“I don't see, I say, how you got to Atlanta; attended to business; seed Adele; an' got back heer at sunrise. Why, Alfred—”
But Bishop interrupted her. “Have you all had prayers yet?”
“No, you know we hain't,” said his wife, wondering over his strange manner. “I reckon it can pass jest this once, bein' as you are tired an' hain't had nothin' to eat.”
“No, it can't pass, nuther; I don't want to touch a mouthful; tell the rest of 'em to come in, an' you fetch me the Book.”
“Well!” Mrs. Bishop went out and told the negro woman and her daughter to stop washing the dishes and go in to prayer. Then she hurried out to the back porch, where Alan was oiling his gun.
“Something's happened to yore pa,” she said. “He acts queer, an' says sech strange things. He walked all the way from Darley this morning, an' now wants to have prayers 'fore he touches a bite o' breakfast. I reckon we are ruined.”
“I'm afraid that's it,” opined her son, as he put down his gun and followed her into the sitting-room. Here the two negroes stood against the wall. Abner Daniel was smoking and Bishop held the big family Bible on his quivering knees.