I put the case last Thursday. Mebbe he'll drop round."
"Well," concluded Amelia, "I guess you're pretty sure to do what's
right."
The forenoon galloped fast, and it was half past eleven before she
thought of dinner.
"Why," said she, "ain't it butcher day? I've been lottin' on a piece o'
liver."
"Butcher day is Thursday," said Enoch. "You've lost count."
"My land!" responded Amelia. "Well, I guess we can put up with some
fried pork an' apples." There came a long, insistent knock at the outer
door. "Good heavens! Who's there! Rosie, you run to the side-light, an'
peek. It can't be a neighbor. They'd come right in. I hope my soul it
ain't company, a day like this."
Rosie got on her fat legs with difficulty. She held her pinafore full
of buttons, but disaster lies in doing too many things at once; there
came a slip, a despairing clutch, and the buttons fell over the floor.
There were a great, many round ones, and they rolled very fast. Amelia
washed the sand from her parboiled fingers, and drew a nervous breath.
She had a presentiment of coming ill, painfully heightened by her
consciousness that the kitchen was "riding out," and that she and her
family rode with it. Rosie came running back from her peephole, husky
with importance.
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