'Who wept, Brother Pitts?' says the parson
over ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, an' p'inted. He was
growin' redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' slippin' down, but
he did manage to see; the chapter begun suthin' about the judges. Well,
by that time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' says he,
'who wept?' The deacon see't he'd got to put some kind of a face on't,
an' he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass. 'I conclude,' says
he,--'I conclude 't was the judges!'"
Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others
laughed out rich and free.
"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who
never forgot the main issue.
"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em
straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the
tears streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him,
an' the parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he
couldn't help it, an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says
he. But 'twas jest as you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn."
"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll
marry him?"
"Why, she won't unless he tells her to.
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