"Open the
door."
"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she
continued. "Only a minute!"
She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
The act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey
in such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to
be refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it.
"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take
off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!"
Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.
"Isabel!" gasped the parson.
"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!"
The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the
mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue
chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss
me the shawl. Now if you say one word--Oh, parson, if you only will
keep still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And
leaving him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.
"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want
greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face
and kissed her niece.
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