"Aunt Effie is sick," Little Child was telling Mis' Toplady; "she is sick from her hair to her slippers."
I had a plan for Little Child and for us all; that after supper she should have leaves in her hair and on her shoulders and should dance on the singing stone in the river. And Miggy, whose shy independence is now become all shyness, was in the house, weaving the leaves, and had not yet appeared at her party at all.
Then one of those charming things happened which surely have a kind of life of their own and wake the hour to singing, as if an event were a river stone, and more, round which all manner of faint music may be set stirring.
"Havin' a party when I ain't lookin'!" cried somebody. "My, my. I don't b'lieve a word of what's name—this evolution business. I bet you anything heaven is just gettin' back."
And there was Calliope, in her round straw hat and tan ulster, who in response to my card had hastened her imminent return.
"Yes," she said, when we had greeted her and put her in a chair under the mulberry tree, "my relation got well. At least, she ain't sick enough to be cross, so 'most anybody could take care of her now."
Calliope laughed and leaned back and shut her eyes.
"Land, land," she said, "I got so much to tell you about I don't know where to begin. It's all about one thing, too—somethin' I've found out."
Mis' Amanda Toplady drew a great breath and let fall her work and looked round at us all.
"Goodness," she said, "ain't it comfortable—us all settin' here together, nobody's leg broke, nobody's house on fire, nor none of us dead?"