III. Mr. Harrison at Home

           Mr.Harrison’shousewasanold-fashioned,low-eaved,whitewashedstructure,setagainstathicksprucegrove.

           Mr.Harrisonhimselfwassittingonhisvineshadedveranda,inhisshirtsleeves,enjoyinghiseveningpipe.Whenherealizedwhowascomingupthepathhesprangsuddenlytohisfeet,boltedintothehouse,andshutthedoor.Thiswasmerelytheuncomfortableresultofhissurprise,mingledwithagooddealofshameoverhisoutburstoftemperthedaybefore.ButitnearlyswepttheremnantofhercouragefromAnne’sheart.

           “Ifhe’ssocrossnowwhatwillhebewhenhehearswhatI’vedone,”shereflectedmiserably,assherappedatthedoor.

           ButMr.Harrisonopenedit,smilingsheepishly,andinvitedhertoenterinatonequitemildandfriendly,ifsomewhatnervous.Hehadlaidasidehispipeanddonnedhiscoat;heofferedAnneaverydustychairverypolitely,andherreceptionwouldhavepassedoffpleasantlyenoughifithadnotbeenforthetelltaleofaparrotwhowaspeeringthroughthebarsofhiscagewithwickedgoldeneyes.NosoonerhadAnneseatedherselfthanGingerexclaimed,

           “Blessmysoul,what’sthatredheadedsnippetcomingherefor?”

           Itwouldbehardtosaywhosefacewastheredder,Mr.Harrison’sorAnne’s.

           “Don’tyoumindthatparrot,”saidMr.Harrison,castingafuriousglanceatGinger.“He’s...he’salwaystalkingnonsense.Igothimfrommybrotherwhowasasailor.Sailorsdon’talwaysusethechoicestlanguage,andparrotsareveryimitativebirds.