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Updated: May 20, 2025
Morpher, Clytie, or any of his scholars. His reticence was partly the result of a constitutional indisposition to fuss, partly a desire to be spared the questions and surmises of vulgar curiosity, and partly that he never really believed he was going to do anything before it was done. He did not like to think of Mliss.
Morpher was waiting anxiously at the door when the young people arrived. As the master entered the rooom, M'liss called him to her. "Bend down your head" she said, "and I'll whisper. But mind, now, I don't say I know for truth where Risty is, I only reckon." The master bent down his head.
At least, Aristides Morpher thought so as he stood one Sunday afternoon, uneasily conscious of his best jacket and collar, waiting its approach. Nor could anything shake his belief that regularly on that occasion the horses ran away with the driver, and that that individual from motives of deep policy pretended not to notice it until they were stopped.
He'll turn up by bedtime. Don't you worry about him. I'll look him up in a minit," and Mr. Morpher, taking his hat, sauntered down the road in the direction of the National Hotel. Mrs. Mopher gazed doubtfully after her liege. "Looking up" Aristides, in her domestic experience, implied a prolonged absence in the bar- room of the hotel, the tedium whereof was beguiled by seven-up or euchre.
Even the gloomy picture of the future state devised by McSnagley could not alter her determination. Mrs. Morpher, who had a wholesome awe for this strange child, at last had recourse to entreaty. Finally M'liss offered a compromise. "I'll tell the master, but I won't tell you partikerly him," said M'liss, indicating the parson with a bodkin-like dart of her forefinger. Mrs. Morpher hesitated.
Morpher was reputed to "set the best table" in Smith's Pocket, and McSnagley always called in on Sunday evenings at supper to discuss the current gossip, and "nag" M'liss with selected texts. The verbal McSnagley as usual couldn't stop a moment and just dropped in "in passin'." The actual McSnagley deposited his hat in the corner, and placed himself, in the flesh, on a chair by the table.
So that with but one exception, however the "Prairie Rose" might have trimmed, pruned, and trained her own natural luxuriance, the little shoots came up defiantly wild and straggling. That one exception was Clytemnestra Morpher, aged fifteen. She was the realization of her mother's most extravagant dream.
She had been sitting thus some minutes when she heard the sound of voices without, the trampling of many feet, and a loud rapping at the door below. She sprang to the door and looked out in the passage. Something white passed by her like a flash and crouched down at the head of the stairs. It was M'liss. Mrs. Morpher opened the door. "Is Mr. Morpher in?" said a half dozen strange, hoarse voices.
Morpher the fair young lady with blond curls, who caused the detention? Is not Mr. Gray a sly young fellow for all his seeming frankness? So he must go to-day? He cannot possibly wait a few days, and go with them? Thus Mrs. Smith, between her red lips and white teeth, and under her half-closed eyes; for M'liss stands quietly apart without speaking.
"They don't ask questions when they should be eating their supper, and thankful for it," interposed Clytie, authoritatively, as one to whom the genteel attributes and social habits of the seraphim had been a privileged revelation. "But, mother" "Hush and don't be a heathen run and see who is coming in," said Mrs. Morpher, as the sound of footsteps was heard in the passage.
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