Overhead light
gray clouds were flying across the sky, and beyond the waving tree-tops a
white mist hung above the dim blue chain of mountains.
When she went downstairs she found the Major, in his best black broadcloth,
pacing up and down before the house. It was Sunday, and he intended to
drive into town where the rector held his services.
"You won't go in with me, I reckon?" he ventured hopefully, when Betty
smiled out upon him from the library window. "Ah, my dear, you're as fresh
as the morning, and only an old man to look at you. Well, well, age has its
consolations; you'll spare me a kiss, I suppose?"
"Then you must come in to get it," answered Betty, her eyes narrowing.
"Breakfast is getting cold, and Cupid is calling down Aunt Rhody's wrath
upon your head."
"Oh, I'll come, I'll come," returned the Major, hurrying up the steps, and
adding as he entered the dining room, "My child, if you'd only take a fancy
to Champe, I'd be the happiest man on earth."
"Now I shan't allow any matchmaking on Sunday," said Betty, warningly, as
she prepared Mrs. Lightfoot's breakfast. "Sit down and carve the chicken
while I run upstairs with this."
She went out and came back in a moment, laughing merrily. "Do you know, she
threatens to become bedridden now that I am here to fix her trays," she
explained, sitting down between the tall silver urns and pouring out the
Major's coffee. "What an uncertain day you have for church," she added as
she gave his cup to Cupid.
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