thleen's or Mother Carey's
occasional laugh at some especially ridiculous sentence.

"The hours fly by like minutes," continues Nancy, stopping by the side
window and twirling the curtain tassel absently. "I scan the surrounding
country to see if anything compares with Beulah, and nothing does. No
such river, no such trees, no such well, no such old oaken bucket, and
above all no such Yellow House. All the other houses I see are but as
huts compared with the Yellow House of Beulah. Soon the car door opens;
a brakeman looks in and calls in a rich baritone voice, 'Greentown!
Greentown! Do-not-leave-any-passles in the car!' And if you know
beforehand what he is going to say you can understand him quite nicely,
so I take up my bag and go down the aisle with dignity. 'Step lively,
Miss!' cries the brakeman, but I do not heed him; it is not likely that
a person renting country houses will move save with majesty. Alighting,
I inquire if there is any conveyance for Beulah, and there is, a wagon
and a white horse. I ask the driver boldly to drive me to the Colonel's
office. He does not ask which Colonel, or what Colonel, he simply says,
'Colonel Foster, I s'pose,' and I say, 'Certainly.' We arrive at the
office and when I introduce myself as Captain Carey's daughter I receive
a glad welcome. The Colonel rings a bell and an aged beldame approaches,
making a deep curtsy and offering me a beaker of milk, a crusty loaf, a
few venison pasties, and a cold goose stuffed with humming birds. When I
have reduced these to nothingness I ask if the yellow house on the
outskirts of the village is still vacant, and the Colonel replies that
it is, at which unexpected but hoped-for answer I fall into a deep
swoon. When I awake the aged Colonel is bending over me, his long white
goat's beard tickling my chin."

(Mother Carey stops her darning now and Kathleen makes no pretence of
sewing; the story is fast approaching its climax,--everybody feels that,
including Peter, who hopes that he will be in it, in some guise or
other, before it ends.)

"'Art thou married, lady?' the aged one asks courteously, 'and if not,
wilt thou be mine?'"

"I tremble, because he does not seem to notice that he is eighty or
ninety and I but fifteen, yet I fear if I reject him too scornfully and
speedily the Yellow House will never be mine. 'Grant me a little time in
which to fit myself for this great honor,' I say modestly, and a mighty
good idea, too, that I got out