XIII. Sortes Sanctorum—The Valentine

           ItwasSundayafternooninthefarmhouse,onthethirteenthofFebruary.Dinnerbeingover,Bathsheba,forwantofabettercompanion,hadaskedLiddytocomeandsitwithher.Themouldypilewasdrearyinwinter-timebeforethecandleswerelightedandtheshuttersclosed;theatmosphereoftheplaceseemedasoldasthewalls;everynookbehindthefurniturehadatemperatureofitsown,forthefirewasnotkindledinthispartofthehouseearlyintheday;andBathsheba’snewpiano,whichwasanoldoneinotherannals,lookedparticularlyslopingandoutoflevelonthewarpedfloorbeforenightthrewashadeoveritslessprominentanglesandhidtheunpleasantness.Liddy,likealittlebrook,thoughshallow,wasalwaysrippling;herpresencehadnotsomuchweightastotaskthought,andyetenoughtoexerciseit.

           OnthetablelayanoldquartoBible,boundinleather.Liddylookingatitsaid,—

           "Didyoueverfindout,miss,whoyouaregoingtomarrybymeansoftheBibleandkey?"

           "Don’tbesofoolish,Liddy.Asifsuchthingscouldbe."

           "Well,there’sagooddealinit,allthesame."

           "Nonsense,child."

           "Anditmakesyourheartbeatfearful.Somebelieveinit;somedon’t;Ido."

           "Verywell,let’stryit,"saidBathsheba,boundingfromherseatwiththattotaldisregardofconsistencywhichcanbeindulgedintowardsadependent,andenteringintothespiritofdivinationatonce."Goandgetthefrontdoorkey."

           Liddyfetchedit."Iwishitwasn’tSunday,"shesaid,onreturning."Perhaps’tiswrong.