The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham’s

      Table of Contents

      I refused to take that class in Sunday School the first time I was asked. It was not that I objected to teaching in the Sunday School. On the contrary I rather liked the idea; but it was the Rev. Mr. Allan who asked me, and it had always been a matter of principle with me never to do anything a man asked me to do if I could help it. I was noted for that. It saves a great deal of trouble and it simplifies everything beautifully. I had always disliked men. It must have been born in me, because, as far back as I can remember, an antipathy to men and dogs was one of my strongest characteristics. I was noted for that. My experiences through life only served to deepen it. The more I saw of men, the more I liked cats.

      So, of course, when the Rev. Allan asked me if I would consent to take a class in Sunday School, I said no in a fashion calculated to chasten him wholesomely. If he had sent his wife the first time, as he did the second, it would have been wiser. People generally do what Mrs. Allan asks them to do because they know it saves time.

      Mrs. Allan talked smoothly for half an hour before she mentioned the Sunday School, and paid me several compliments. Mrs. Allan is famous for her tact. Tact is a faculty for meandering around to a given point instead of making a bee-line. I have no tact. I am noted for that. As soon as Mrs. Allan’s conversation came in sight of the Sunday School, I, who knew all along whither it was tending, said, straight out,

      “What class do you want me to teach?”

      Mrs. Allan was so surprised that she forgot to be tactful, and answered plainly for once in her life,

      “There are two classes — one of boys and one of girls — needing a teacher. I have been teaching the girls’ class, but I shall have to give it up for a little time on account of the baby’s health. You may have your choice, Miss MacPherson.”

      “Then I shall take the boys,” I said decidedly. I am noted for my decision. “Since they have to grow up to be men it’s well to train them properly betimes. Nuisances they are bound to become under any circumstances; but if they are taken in hand young enough they may not grow up to be such nuisances as they otherwise would and that will be some unfortunate woman’s gain.” Mrs. Allan looked dubious. I knew she had expected me to choose the girls.

      “They are a very wild set of boys,” she said.

      “I never knew boys who weren’t,” I retorted.

      “I — I — think perhaps you would like the girls best,” said Mrs. Allan hesitatingly. If it had not been for one thing — which I would never in this world have admitted to Mrs. Allan — I might have liked the girls’ class best myself. But the truth was, Anne Shirley was in that class; and Anne Shirley was the one living human being that I was afraid of. Not that I disliked her. But she had such a habit of asking weird, unexpected questions, which a Philadelphia lawyer couldn’t answer. Miss Rogerson had that class once and Anne routed her, horse, foot and artillery. I wasn’t going to undertake a class with a walking interrogation point in it like that. Besides, I thought Mrs. Allan required a slight snub. Ministers’ wives are rather apt to think they can run everything and everybody, if they are not wholesomely corrected now and again.

      “It is not what I like best that must be considered, Mrs. Allan,” I said rebukingly. “It is what is best for those boys. I feel that I shall be best for THEM.”

      “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, Miss MacPherson,” said Mrs. Allan amiably. It was a fib for her, minister’s wife though she was. She HAD doubt. She thought I would be a dismal failure as teacher of a boys’ class.

      But I was not. I am not often a dismal failure when I make up my mind to do a thing. I am noted for that.

      “It is wonderful what a reformation you have worked in that class, Miss MacPherson — wonderful,” said the Rev. Mr. Allan some weeks later. He didn’t mean to show how amazing a thing he thought it that an old maid noted for being a man hater should have managed it, but his face betrayed him.

      “Where does Jimmy Spencer live?” I asked him crisply. “He came one Sunday three weeks ago and hasn’t been back since. I mean to find out why.”

      Mr. Allan coughed.

      “I believe he is hired as handy boy with Alexander Abraham Bennett, out on the White Sands road,” he said.

      “Then I am going out to Alexander Abraham Bennett’s on the White Sands road to see why Jimmy Spencer doesn’t come to Sunday school,” I said firmly.

      Mr. Allan’s eyes twinkled ever so slightly. I have always insisted that if that man were not a minister he would have a sense of humour.

      “Possibly Mr. Bennett will not appreciate your kind interest! He has — ah — a singular aversion to your sex, I understand. No woman has ever been known to get inside of Mr. Bennett’s house since his sister died twenty years ago.”

      “Oh, he is the one, is he?” I said, remembering. “He is the woman hater who threatens that if a woman comes into his yard he’ll chase her out with a pitchfork. Well, he will not chase ME out!”

      Mr. Allan gave a chuckle — a ministerial chuckle, but still a chuckle. It irritated me slightly, because it seemed to imply that he thought Alexander Abraham Bennett would be one too many for me. But I did not show Mr. Allan that he annoyed me. It is always a great mistake to let a man see that he can vex you.

      The next afternoon I harnessed my sorrel pony to the buggy and drove down to Alexander Abraham Bennett’s. As usual, I took William Adolphus with me for company. William Adolphus is my favourite among my six cats. He is black, with a white dicky and beautiful white paws. He sat up on the seat beside me and looked far more like a gentleman than many a man I’ve seen in a similar position.

      Alexander Abraham’s place was about three miles along the White Sands road. I knew the house as soon as I came to it by its neglected appearance. It needed paint badly; the blinds were crooked and torn; weeds grew up to the very door. Plainly, there was no woman about THAT place. Still, it was a nice house, and the barns were splendid. My father always said that when a man’s barns were bigger than his house it was a sign that his income exceeded his expenditure. So it was all right that they should be bigger; but it was all wrong that they should be trimmer and better painted. Still, thought I, what else could you expect of a woman hater?

      “But Alexander Abraham evidently knows how to run a farm, even it he is a woman hater,” I remarked to William Adolphus as I got out and tied the pony to the railing.

      I had driven up to the house from the back way and now I was opposite a side door opening on the veranda. I thought I might as well go to it, so I tucked William Adolphus under my arm and marched up the path. Just as I was halfway up, a dog swooped around the front corner and made straight for me. He was the ugliest dog I had ever seen; and he didn’t even bark — just came silently and speedily on, with a businesslike eye.

      I never stop to argue matters with a dog that doesn’t bark. I know when discretion is the better part of valour. Firmly clasping William Adolphus, I ran — not to the door, because the dog was between me and it, but to a big, low-branching cherry tree at the back corner of the house. I reached it in time and no more. First thrusting William Adolphus on to a limb above my head, I scrambled up into that blessed tree without stopping to think how it might look to Alexander