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"Oh, that I met you, had dinner, went to the theatre " "Then why " "I'm coming to that. While we were away somebody Mrs. Weatherwax, I suppose filled Joe full of malicious town gossip about our our friendship and he was terrible. Oh, you can't know, you can't know!" "But me me!" cried Shelby, clutching her by the arms. "What about me? Is he down on me?
Bowers could conceive of no instrument so sure as the Widow Weatherwax, who providentially dropped in to borrow flour at the precise moment Mrs. Bowers had decided that if she ever meant to run over and copy the widow's unequalled recipe for floating island, this was the time to do it. Quite in the same breath with her greetings, therefore, Mrs.
Hilliard left town for her annual autumn round of the shops of New York, he could have gone to her prepared to accept her supremest charity. In his blackest hour the distracted man encountered the Widow Weatherwax. Since her sibylline performances at the camp-meeting he had seen little of her, the fascination of will-making being temporarily eclipsed by a local temperance crusade led by Mr.
He flushed, and wrestled with his diffidence like a schoolboy, as the house grew still and they waited for him to speak. "I I don't claim the credit, friends," he stammered. "It's your victory." Midway in the following forenoon Shelby sat in his law office revising for the seventh time the last will and testament of the Widow Weatherwax.
"I believe he's addressing a woman suffrage convention in Chicago to-day." She gave him a lazy glance. "And Mrs. Shelby is she here?" "She's in Saratoga, I believe." "Belief again? We really ought to read the papers." He tried to search her face, but the pebble-throwing prevented. The Widow Weatherwax had expatiated on the topic of Mrs.
Her short rotund body writhing not unlike an Oriental dancer's, the Widow Weatherwax had assumed the centre of the ring. The sanctified were without sense of humor, but the unregenerate onlookers were not proof against the comic aspects of emotional religion, and from the dark outskirts rang a ribald laugh. "Why doesn't that dreadful woman wear a corset?" demanded Mrs.
"So you've the Sunday-school idea of politics," he threw over his shoulder with heavy sarcasm. "I'm to teach a Bible class and pass out dinkey little reward-of-merit cards to the prize pupils! Bah!" His wife presently fetched her outdoor wraps and adjusted them before a mirror in the dimly lit hall. "I'm going to take a tumbler of jelly to poor lonely Mrs. Weatherwax," she announced from the door.
The fringe of the wood was defaced with the litter of picnickers, and smelt of lunch; the din of the agents for new-fangled reapers and ploughs, whose gaudy paint was doubly garish against the sober background, had routed the squirrels and birds; but the remoter paths held only silent lovers, and the camp-ground, where the Widow Weatherwax had mouthed and played the prophet, stripped of its tents, its zealots, its wavering torchlights, was full of wholesome sunlight and forest peace.
Buttonholed while crossing the court-house lawn, and backed into a corner between the county clerk's office and the jail, Shelby had to listen with what patience he might to her denunciation of what she called his vile concord with Belial. "Yes, yes, Mrs. Weatherwax," he wedged in finally; "but we can't all think alike. Now if you were a liquor dealer's wife, you would sing another song."
As the lawyer slowly read the instrument, which he could have rattled off from memory, Mrs. Weatherwax punctuated the pious phrases of its exordium with approving wags. "'Frail and transitory," she interpolated; "that's jest what life is. I might be took any minute."
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