He went forward blindly. The dusk had deepened; from either side of
the road, from the mysterious gloom of the bushes, came the twangs of
the katydids, like some coarse rustic quarrellers, each striving for
the last word in a dispute not even dignified by excess of passion.
Suddenly somebody jostled him to his own side of the path. "That you,
Thomas? Where you been?" said a voice in his ear.
"That you, father? Down to the post-office."
"Who was that you was talkin' with back there?"
"Miss Evelina Leonard."
"That girl that's stayin' there--to the old Squire's?"
"Yes." The son tried to move on, but his father stood before him
dumbly for a minute. "I must be going, father. I've got to work on my
sermon," Thomas said, impatiently.
"Wait a minute," said his father. "I've got something to say to ye,
Thomas, an' this is as good a time to say it as any. There ain't
anybody 'round. I don't know as ye'll thank me for it--but mother
said the other day that she thought you'd kind of an idea--she said
you asked her if she thought it would be anything out of the way for
you to go up to the Squire's to make a call. Mother she thinks you
can step in anywheres, but I don't know. I know your book-learnin'
and your bein' a minister has set you up a good deal higher than your
mother and me and any of our folks, and I feel as if you were good
enough for anybody, as far as that goes; but that ain't all.
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