She
blew out the lamp, and lighted a candle. Then she went to the door,
schooling herself in desperation to remember this, to remember that, to
remember, above all things, that her under dress was red and that her
upper one had no back breadth. She threw open the door.
"Good-evening"--said the parson. He was, about to add "Miss Isabel,"
but the words stuck in his throat.
"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home."
The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with
benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he
expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her
also. "Will she be away long?" he hesitated.
"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly. "She ain't to be relied
on. I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly
she was imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were
dramatically exact, albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice
is like suet," she thought. "Mine is vinegar. _But I've got it!_" A
merry devil assailed her, the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with
decision: "Won't you come in?"
The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede
him; but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside.
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