In this instance she is
surrounded by six or seven grave worthies, whose comical faces add
great piquancy to the conclave. Grandmumma Dorothy, who declares
that she is grandmother to she don't know how much little growing-up
property, will venture every grey hair in her head-which is as white
as the snows of Nova Scotia-that he knows a deal o' things about the
gospel, or he wouldn't have missus for such a close acquaintance.
"But his shirt ain't just da'h fashon fo'h a 'spectable minister ob
de gospel," she concludes, with profound wisdom evinced in her
measured nod.
Aunt Betsy, than whose face none is blacker, or more comically
moulded, will say her word; but she is very profound withal. "Reckon
how tain't de clo' what make e' de preacher tink good" (Aunty's lip
hangs seriously low the while). "Lef missus send some calico fum
town, and dis old woman son fix 'um into shirt fo'h him," she says,
with great assurance of her sincerity.
Harry-Mister Harry, as he is to be called by the people-finds
himself comfortably at home; the only drawback, if such it may be
called, existing in the unwillingness exhibited on the part of one
of the overseers to his being provided with apartments in the
basement of the house instead of one of the cabins. This, however,
is, by a few conciliatory words from Mrs. Rosebrook, settled to the
satisfaction of all. Harry has supper provided for him in one of the
little rooms downstairs, which he is to make his Study, and into
which he retires for the night.
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