"Why, General, according to our Southern ways," she
said,--every word mellowed by her Southern way of saying it,--"that's
for Isabel to tell you."
"Then why does she not do it, Mrs. Morris?" asked the veteran, who had
been district attorney himself once upon a time, and was clever with
witnesses.
"Why, really, General, Isabel hasn't had a cha--Oh! ho, ho! I oughtn't
to have said that!" Mrs. Morris had a killing dimple, but never used it.
"I suppose--of course"--said the General, "she will say
it's--eh--Arthur?"
"Now you're making me tell," she laughed, "and I mustn't! General,
Godfrey seems to be going."
In fact, Godfrey was shaking hands with Ruth and Leonard. Now he took
the hands of Arthur and Isabel together, and Mrs. Morris laughed more
sweetly and with more oh's and ho's than ever; for Isabel sedately
kissed Arthur's brother.
Ruth made signs to her father, who answered them in kind. "What does she
say, Mrs. Morris? Can you hear?"
"She says they're singing 'your hymn' down in a church under the hill."
"Ah yes." He beamed and nodded to Ruth; but when Mrs. Morris once more
laughed, his brow clouded a trifle. "Your daughter, Mrs. Morris"--
The lady broke in with a note of bright surprise, rose, and took an
unconscious step forward. The five young friends were advancing in a
compact cluster, with measured pace. Ruth and Isabel, in front abreast,
and making happy show of the hawthorn sprays, were just enough apart to
conceal, except for their superior height, the three lovers, and in
lowered tones, but with kindling eyes, the five, incited by Ruth, were
singing the song they had caught up from the valley,--the old man's
favorite from the days of his own song-time.
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