Part 15 (1/2)

”How did you know?” asked that extraordinary young man.

I laughed.

”Nort,” I said, ”you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to write--and is ashamed of himself because he can't.”

With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she knows best how to do.

”Captain,” I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, ”Nort has brought a ma.n.u.script with him to read to us.”

At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast.

”The Captain has one, too,” I said.

”A mere editorial,” responded the Captain with dignity.

”Where's yours, Fergus?” I asked.

Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was amused.

At this point Harriet broke in.

”Before you do anything else,” said she, ”I want you all to come out and have a bite to eat.”

That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she appears with--gingerbread--and stampedes the entire company. Why, you couldn't have kept Fergus----

Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin gla.s.s dishes that came from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the delectable mola.s.ses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin gla.s.s tumblers (of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost foamy at the top.

There are perfect moments in this life!

Nort was in the wildest spirits, the rebound from his unusual mood of seriousness. Nothing escaped him--neither the napkins, nor the spoons, nor the thin old gla.s.s, nor the perfect gingerbread, nor the marvellous apple sauce, nor the glow in Harriet's face. She knew that Nort would see it all! Harriet is never so beautiful as when she sits at the head of her own table, her moment of supreme artistry.

”I went to church to-day,” said Nort finally.

”You did!” Harriet was vastly pleased.

”Yes,” smiled Nort.

This was truly a youth after her own heart.

”Nothing else to do on Sunday in Hempfield,” said Nort; ”and it was interesting.”

He stopped and looked slowly around at me.

”The truth about the church in Hempfield, David!” he exclaimed, as though we had a secret between us.

I laughed.

”That's one thing,” I said, ”you can't easily tell the truth about--in Hempfield.”

”Why not?” asked Harriet with astonishment. ”Is there anything that should encourage one to truth-telling more than the church?”

”Read it, Nort,” said I, ”read it.”