A relative of Miss Isabel's, did
you say?"
She laughed huskily. She was absorbed in putting more suet into her
voice.
"You make me think of uncle Peter Nudd," she replied, "when he was took
up into Bunker Hill Monument. Albert took him, one o' the boys that
lived in Boston. Comin' down, they met a woman Albert knew, an' he
bowed. Uncle Peter looked round arter her, an' then he says to Albert,
'I dunno's I rightly remember who that is!'"
The parson uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The old
lady began to seem to him a thought too discursive, if not hilarious.
"I know so many of the people in the various parishes"--he began, but
he was interrupted without compunction.
"You never'd know me. I'm from out West. Isabel's father's brother
married my uncle--no, I would say my step-niece. An' so I'm her aunt.
By adoption, 't ennyrate. We al'ays call it so, leastways when we're
writin' back an' forth. An' I've heard how Isabel was goin' on, an' so
I ketched up my bunnit, an' put for Tiverton. 'If she ever needed her
own aunt,' says I--'her aunt by adoption--she needs her now.'"
Once or twice, during the progress of this speech, the visitor had
shifted his position, as if ill at ease.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91