"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door."
He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin
his shawl.
"I ain't had my bunnit off sence I come," announced Isabel, entering
with some bustle, and taking her stand, until he should be seated,
within the darkest corner of the hearth. "I've had to turn to an' clear
up, or I shouldn't ha' found a spot as big as a hin's egg to sleep in
to-night. Maybe you don't know it, but my niece Isabel's got no more
faculty about a house'n I have for preachin'--not a mite."
The parson had seated himself by the stove, and was laboriously
removing his arctics. Isabel's eyes danced behind her spectacles as she
thought how large and ministerial they were. She could not see them,
for the spectacles dazzled her, but she remembered exactly how they
looked. Everything about him filled her with glee, now that she was
safe, though within his reach. "'Now, infidel,'" she said noiselessly,
"'I have thee on the hip!'"
The parson had settled himself in his accustomed attitude when making
parochial calls. He put the tips of his fingers together, and opened
conversation in his tone of mild goodwill:--
"I don't seem to be able to place you.
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