I see
him grow stout and red-faced as he reads a dull Latin volume beside his
bottle of old port--there's your fortune, sir, the silver, if you please."
She finished in a whining voice, and rose to drop a courtesy.
"On my word, you're a witch, Betty," he exclaimed, laughing, "a regular
witch on a broomstick."
"Does the likeness flatter you? Shall I touch it up a bit? Just a dash more
of red in the face?"
"Well, I reckon it's true as prophecy ever was," he said easily. "It isn't
likely that I'll ever be a beggar, despite your kindly wishes for my soul's
welfare; and, on the whole, I think I'd rather not. When all's said and
done, I'd rather own my servants and my cultivated acres, and come down
late to hot cakes than sit in the dust by the roadside and eat sour grapes.
It may not be so good for the soul, but it's vastly more comfortable; and
I'm not sure that a fat soul in a lean body is the best of life, Betty."
"At least it doesn't give one gout," retorted Betty, mercilessly, adding as
she went to the door: "but the rain is holding up, and I must be going.
I'll borrow your horse, if you please, Dan." She tied on her flattened
bonnet, and with her foot on the threshold, stood looking across the wet
fields, where each spear of grass pieced a string of shining rain drops.
Over the mountains the clouds tossed in broken masses, and loose streamers
of vapour drifted down into the lower foldings of the hills.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171