United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Women -- Social conditions -- Fiction
"She shall be called Regina Orme, and if it will not too heavily tax
your kindness, I should like to give her the small room next your
own, and ask Douglass to move across the hall and take the front
chamber opening on the verandah. The little girl may be timid, and it
would comfort her to feel that you are within call should she be sick
or become frightened. I am sure Douglass will not object to the
change."
"Certainly not. Blessings on his royal heart! He would not be my own
noble boy if he failed to obey any wish of yours."
I will at once superintend the transfer of his books and clothes, for
if the child comes to-day you have left me little time for
preparation.
She put away the crochet basket and, looking affectionately at the
grave face that watched her movements, said soberly:
"Do not look so lugubrious; remember Abraham's example of
hospitality, and let us do all we can for this motherless lamb, or
kid,--whichever she may prove. One thing more, and here-after I shall
hold my peace. You need not live in chronic dread, lest the Guy
Fawkes of female curiosity pry into, and explode your mystery; for I
assure you, Peyton, I shall never directly or indirectly question the
child, and until you voluntarily broach the subject I shall never
mention it to you. Are you satisfied?"
"Fully satisfied with my sister, and inexpressibly grateful for her
unquestioning faith in me."
She swept him an exaggerated courtesy, and, despite the grey threads
that began to glint in her auburn hair, ran up the stairway as
lightly as a girl of fifteen.
For some time he stood with his hands behind him, gazing abstractedly
through the open window, and now and then he heard the busy patter of
hurrying feet in the room over head, while snatches of Easter
anthems, and the swelling "Amen" of a "Gloria" rolled down the steps,
assuring him that all doubt and suspicion had been ejected from the
faithful, fond, sisterly heart.
Taking his broad-brimmed gardening hat from the table, the pastor
went down among his flower-beds, followed by Bioern, to whose innate
asperity of temper was added the snarling fretfulness of old age.
A fine young brood of white Brahma chickens, having surreptitiously
effected an entrance into the sacred precincts of the flower-garden,
were now diligently prosecuting their experiments in entomotomy right
in the heart of a border of choice carnations. When Bioern had chased
the marauders to the confines of the poultry yard, and watched the
last awkward fledgling scramble through the palings, his master began
to repair the damage, and soon became absorbed in the favourite task
of tying up the spicy tufts of bloom that deluged the air with
perfume as he lifted and bent the slender stems. His straw hat shut
out the sight of surrounding objects, and he only turned his head
when Mrs. Lindsay put her hand on his shoulder, and exclaimed:
"Peyton, 'the Philistines _be_ upon thee'!"
"Do you mean that she has come?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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