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"And then," she went on, suddenly throwing out an imperative gesture of silence "and then, after I've been in this here house a long, long time, and you all gits so's you like me awful awful awful well, then some day you'll go in that room there and that room there and in the kitchen and out on the porch and down the cellar and out in the smoke-house and the wood-house and the loft and all around oh, ever' place and in here and up the stairs and all them rooms up there and you'll look behind all the doors and in all the cubboards and under all the beds and then you'll look sorry-like, and holler out, kind o' skeert, and you'll say: 'Where is Mary Alice Smith? And then you'll wait and listen and hold yer breath; and then somepin' 'll holler back, away fur off, and say: 'Oh she has gone home! And then ever'thing'll be all still ag'in, and you'll be afraid to holler any more and you dursn't play and you can't laugh, and yer throat'll thist hurt and hurt, like you been a-eatin' too much calamus-root er somepin'!" And as the little gipsy concluded her weird prophecy, with a final flourish of her big pale eyes, we glanced furtively at one another's awestruck faces, with a superstitious dread of a vague indefinite disaster most certainly awaiting us around some shadowy corner of the future.
"Me preach!" exclaimed the laird; "I never did such a thing in my life." "Maype you'll read a chapter, what-e-ver," persisted the elder. "Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?" "So I would, sir, but my throat'll not stand it." "Is there no other elder who could do it?" "Not wan, sir.
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