"I must bide up to-night an' finish that job," he said, when they were
indoors and she began asking how in the world he had been spending his
time. "I've been worryin' mysel' all day."
"It's those sermons agen," Naomi decided. "They do your head no good,
an' I wish you'd give up preachin'."
"Now that's just what I'm goin' to do," he answered, pushing the
Bible far into the shelf till its edges knocked on the wood of the
skivet-drawer.
THE PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA'S POST-BAG.
I.--AN INTERRUPTION:
_From Algernon Dexter, writer of Vers de Societe, London, to Rasselas,
Prince of Abyssinia_.
My dear prince,--Our correspondence has dwindled of late. Indeed, I do
not remember to have heard from you since I wrote to acknowledge your
kindness in standing godfather to my boy Jack (now rising two), and
the receipt of the beautiful scimitar which, as a christening present,
accompanied your consent. Still I do not forget the promise you
exacted from "Q." and myself after lunch at the Mitre, on the day when
we took our bachelors' degrees together--that if in our paths through
life we happened upon any circumstance that seemed to throw fresh
light on the dark, complex workings of the human heart, or at least
likely to prove of interest to a student of his fellow men, we would
write it down and despatch it to you, under cover of The Negus.
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