She had ever a faint look and a
thin, sickly voice. She had the man-fear,--a deep distrust of
men,--never ceasing to be on her guard. In girlhood, she had been
to Albany, Its splendour and the reckless conduct of one Alma
Haskins, companion of her travels, had been ever since a day-long
perennial topic of her conversation. Miss Letitia was more
amiable. She had a playful, cheery heart in her, a mincing and
precise manner, and a sweet voice. What with the cleaning,
dusting, and preserving, they were ever busy. A fly, driven hither
and thither, fell of exhaustion if not disabled with a broom. They
were two weeks getting ready for the teacher. When, at last, he
came that afternoon, supper was ready and they were nearly worn out.
"Here he is!" one whispered suddenly from a window. Then, with a
last poke at her hair, Miss Letitia admitted the teacher. They
spoke their greeting in a half whisper and stood near, waiting
timidly for his coat and cap.
"No, thank you," said he, taking them to a nail. "I can do my own
hanging, as the man said when he committed suicide."
Miss S'mantha looked suspicious and walked to the other side of the
stove. Impressed by the silence of the room, much exaggerated by
the ticking of the clock, Sidney Trove sat a moment looking around
him.
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