"There was lots more programme besides that, singin' an' speakin' pieces an'--oh, land! there was one girl come switchin' in with a long tail to her dress, that would reach clean from here to the mill, an' the neck of it cut that low it would make a body want to get under the seat; it was jist shameful! An' the way she sang was jist near as bad. She squalled an' took on as if everybody she'd ever knowed had been massacreed, an' you couldn't make out one single word she said no more than if it had been Eyetalian. An' all them folks set with their mouths open, an' seemed to think it was jist grand, low neck an' all, an' when she finished up with a yell jist like the sawmill whistle, they clapped fit to kill. I'm sure I'd heaps rather listen to Julia Duffy singin' 'Father, dear father, come home with me now,' an' you know what that's like." "But that ain't near the worst yet. After all them fellas got through some more scrabblin', out comes the tall chap again, I was tellin' you about. Maria said it was him, or I never would a guessed it, because, as sure as you're standin' there, Mrs. Hamilton, he was all blackened up and togged out with a long-tailed coat, an' a high hat, an' danced, an' cut up jist fit to kill. The people all went clean into fits; an' I thought James Turner would a' died laughin'. It was real kind o' comical, too, the way he went on. But now I'm comin' to the real part o' my story. When we were goin' home on the street car, Maria says to me, sez she, 'Do you mind the fellow that sang the coon song?' sez she. 'Well, I should think I do,' sez I, 'an' of all the bold young scamps!'--'Well,' sez she, 'that fellow's goin' to be a Presbyterian minister!' 'A minister!' sez I; 'what on earth's a minister doin' flappin' 'round in a black night-gown an' playin' on a fryin' pan an' singin' nigger songs? He ought to be home readin' his Bible!' sez I. 'Well,' sez Maria, 'he's goin' to be one anyhow. He's jist in Var-city yet,' sez she, 'an' I guess it don't matter.' 'Well,' sez I, 'Maria Cotton, the sooner he gets out o' _Var_-city, or whatever you call it, the better, for it must be a wicked hole!' Well, we didn't say any more about him, 'cause we was racin' an tearin' 'round to somethin' new all the time, an' I clean forgot all about it, until Monday night, I was goin' home a piece o' the road with Mrs. Fraser, an' Mrs. Basketful called to me that there was a letter from Maria for me. I was scairt for a minit, for I thought her an' the children must be all dead, she writes so seldom. But here if she didn't write to tell me the most surprisin' news you ever heard, no less than that my gigglin' dancin' chap with the bangjo was no less than our own minister!" There was a chorus of startled exclamations. Everyone had guessed the end of the story, but it was astounding nevertheless when put into words.