A First Family of Tasaa | Page 9

but shameless
tergiversation. "Don't bother your poor father, Phemie, love; don't you
see he's just tired out? And you're not eatin' anything, dad."
As Mr. Harkutt was uneasily conscious that he had been eating heartily
in spite of his financial difficulties, he turned the subject abruptly.
"Where's John Milton?"
Mrs. Harkutt shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed meditatively on
the floor before the fire and in the chimney corner for her only son,
baptized under that historic title. "He was here a minit ago," she said

doubtfully. "I really can't think where he's gone. But," assuringly, "it
ain't far."
"He's skipped with one o' those story-books he's borrowed," said
Phemie. "He's always doin' it. Like as not he's reading with a candle in
the wood-shed. We'll all be burnt up some night."
"But he's got through his chores," interposed Mrs. Harkutt
deprecatingly.
"Yes," continued Harkutt, aggrievedly, "but instead of goin' to bed, or
addin' up bills, or takin' count o' stock, or even doin' sums or suthin'
useful, he's ruinin' his eyes and wastin' his time over trash." He rose
and walked slowly into the sitting-room, followed by his daughter and
a murmur of commiseration from his wife. But Mrs. Harkutt's
ministration for the present did not pass beyond her domain, the
kitchen.
"I reckon ye ain't expectin' anybody tonight, Phemie?" said Mr. Harkutt,
sinking into a chair, and placing his slippered feet against the wall.
"No," said Phemie, "unless something possesses that sappy little
Parmlee to make one of his visitations. John Milton says that out on the
road it blows so you can't stand up. It's just like that idiot Parmlee to be
blown in here, and not have strength of mind enough to get away
again."
Mr. Harkutt smiled. It was that arch yet approving, severe yet satisfied
smile with which the deceived male parent usually receives any
depreciation of the ordinary young man by his daughters. Euphemia
was no giddy thing to be carried away by young men's attentions,--not
she! Sitting back comfortably in his rocking-chair, he said, "Play
something."
The young girl went to the closet and took from the top shelf an
excessively ornamented accordion,--the opulent gift of a reckless
admirer. It was so inordinately decorated, so gorgeous in the blaze of
papier mache, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell on keys and keyboard,

and so ostentatiously radiant in the pink silk of its bellows that it
seemed to overawe the plainly furnished room with its splendors. "You
ought to keep it on the table in a glass vase, Phemie," said her father
admiringly.
"And have HIM think I worshiped it! Not me, indeed! He's conceited
enough already," she returned, saucily.
Mr. Harkutt again smiled his approbation, then deliberately closed his
eyes and threw his head back in comfortable anticipation of the coming
strains.
It is to be regretted that in brilliancy, finish, and even cheerfulness of
quality they were not up to the suggestions of the keys and keyboard.
The most discreet and cautious effort on the part of the young
performer seemed only to produce startlingly unexpected, but instantly
suppressed complaints from the instrument, accompanied by impatient
interjections of "No, no," from the girl herself. Nevertheless, with her
pretty eyebrows knitted in some charming distress of memory, her little
mouth half open between an apologetic smile and the exertion of
working the bellows, with her white, rounded arms partly lifted up and
waving before her, she was pleasantly distracting to the eye. Gradually,
as the scattered strains were marshaled into something like an air, she
began to sing also, glossing over the instrumental weaknesses, filling in
certain dropped notes and omissions, and otherwise assisting the
ineffectual accordion with a youthful but not unmusical voice. The
song was a lugubrious religious chant; under its influence the house
seemed to sink into greater quiet, permitting in the intervals the
murmur of the swollen creek to appear more distinct, and even the far
moaning of the wind on the plain to become faintly audible. At last,
having fairly mastered the instrument, Phemie got into the full swing of
the chant. Unconstrained by any criticism, carried away by the sound of
her own voice, and perhaps a youthful love for mere uproar, or possibly
desirous to drown her father's voice, which had unexpectedly joined in
with a discomposing bass, the conjoined utterances seemed to threaten
the frail structure of their dwelling, even as the gale had distended the
store behind them. When they ceased at last it was in an accession of

dripping from the apparently stirred leaves outside. And then a voice,
evidently from the moist depths of the abyss below, called out,--
"Hullo, there!"
Phemie put down the accordion, said, "Who's that now?" went to the
window, lazily leaned her elbows on the sill, and peered into the