A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

snapped at a fly instead, and tried to give the impression that that was
what he was after all along.
“Ain't you 'shamed ob yourself?” Uncle Jimpson muttered. “Fussin' 'round
here an' stickin' out yer lip at white folks? Come on 'round back where
you b'longs. You an' me is corn-field niggers, dat's all we is!”
And with that irritable dejection that often follows self-sacrifice,
Uncle Jimpson limped away with the subdued Mike skulking at his heels.

CHAPTER IX

As Mrs. Basil Sequin swept up the broad steps at Thornwood, she
congratulated herself upon a duty about to be accomplished. She had not
foregone a bridge luncheon to make this tiresome trip to the country for
purely altruistic reasons. She had come to prove to herself, and to
her circle, the bond of friendship that existed between her and her
distinguished cousin. Experience had taught her that an occasional
reference to “my favorite cousin, John Jay Queerington, the author, you
know,” had its influence. “His is the only great intellect,” she was
fond of telling her husband, “to which I am related either by blood or
marriage.”
Doctor Queerington's reputation was one of those local assumptions that
might be described as prenatal rather than posthumous. It was what
he was going to be, that made his name an awe-inspiring word in the
community, more than what he was already. It was the conviction of his
friends and colleagues that a tardy world would too late recognize his
genius.
After waiting impatiently for some one to respond to her vigorous use
of the heavy knocker, Mrs. Sequin tucked Fanchonette under her arm and
pushed open the door. The hall had doors to right and left, but before
making further investigations she paused to examine minutely the tall
mahogany clock, and the quaint silver candlesticks that stood on an old
table at the foot of the steps.
While bending to inspect the latter, she heard a door open, and
looking up saw a pretty, slender girl in a short white petticoat and
a sleeveless black dress lining, which displayed a pair of remarkably
shapely arms.
“Oh, I didn't know you had come!” exclaimed the young person, cordially
extending a smiling welcome. “What a darling little dog! Is he a
poodle?”
“She is a French poodle,” said Mrs. Sequin with a manner intended to
impress this exceedingly casual person. “Where shall I find my cousin,
Doctor Queerington?”
“The front room up-stairs, on that side. I'd go up with you, only Miss
Ferney Foster, our neighbor, is fitting this lining and she has to get
back to her pickles. I wish we were born feathered like birds, don't
you?”
Mrs. Sequin, who had a masculine susceptibility to a pretty face, could
not repress a smile.
“I know this lining looks queer,” went on the girl with an answering
twinkle. “But it doesn't look any queerer than it feels. Miss Ferney
doesn't know what's the matter, and neither do I. Would you mind taking