What strangers were in town who would wish to drive this
way? The man who occupied the buggy was large and slow-looking; he wore
a black, broad-brimmed felt hat and a black coat, a man evidently of
some presence. And he drove slowly and awkwardly; not an agent plainly.
Thus the logic of the country bore fruitage.
"Harriet," I said, calling through the open doorway, "I think the
Honourable Arthur Caldwell is coming here."
"Mercy me!" exclaimed Harriet, appearing in the doorway, and as quickly
disappearing. I did not see her, of course, but I knew instinctively
that she was slipping off her apron, moving our most celebrated
rocking-chair two inches nearer the door, and whisking a few invisible
particles of dust from the centre table. Every time any one of
importance comes our way, or is distantly likely to come our way.
Harriet resolves herself into an amiable whirlwind of good order,
subsiding into placidity at the first sound of a step on the porch.
As for me I remain in my shirt sleeves, sitting on my porch resting a
moment after my dinner. No sir, I will positively not go in and get my
coat. I am an American citizen, at home in my house with the sceptre of
my dominion--my favourite daily newspaper--in my hand.
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