What d'ye mean
by overhauling me on the road, and askin' me to git into yer d----d
old travelling lunatic asylum?"
"Drive on, pa," said Grandma, coldly: "He ain't in no condition to be
labored with now. Drive on kind o' quick!"
'Kind o' quick' we could not go, but Fanny was made to do her best, and
we did not pause to look behind.
When we got to the church, Sunday-school had already begun. There was
Lovell Barlow looking preternaturally stiff in his best clothes, sitting
with a class of young men. He saw us when we came in, and gave me a look
of deep meaning. It was the same expression--as though there was some
solemn, mutual understanding between us--which he had worn on that night
when he gave me his picture.
"There's plenty of young folks' classes," said Grandma; "but seein' as
we're late maybe you'd jest as soon go right along in with us."
I said that I should like that best, so I went into the "old folks'"
class with Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.
There were three pews of old people in front of us, and the teacher, who
certainly seemed to me the oldest person I had ever seen, sat in an
otherwise vacant pew in front of all, so that, his voice being very thin
and querulous, we could hear very little that he said, although we were
edified in some faint sense by his pious manner of shaking his head and
rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132