with Miranda, still she was his daughter and he was worried about her soul. All the frivolity and worldly tendencies which imperiled it he had tried to eradicate, with but dubious success, he knew very well. It looked now as though she were going into an environment where her worst nature would be fostered by luxury and the general atmosphere of ease and softness that he abhorred.
He walked into his room and shutting the door fell to his knees in prayer for Miranda.
His disquiet was increased later by the girl's behavior. Mr. Van Ryn, it seemed, had no limit to his forethought—or from Ephraim's viewpoint, foolish extravagance. He had ordered dinner for them. It arrived on trays borne by two black waiters just as Ephraim and Miranda were preparing to eat the bread and sausages and slices of pie that Abigail had packed in Ephraim's basket.
The dinner was colossal and composed entirely of items that neither of them recognized. Nor were they helped any by the gilded menu which was presented to them by one of the negroes.
It was written in gibberish—French, the waiter said in response to Miranda's timid question. She thereupon seized the menu and repeated the outlandish words to herself.
'Gigot d'agneau roti,'
murmured Miranda, pronouncing every letter carefully. 'I wonder what that is.
Tournedos de volaille. Compote de fruits glacés.'
She darted from one dish to another, sampling each. 'Oh, but isn't it all tasty! And so many different things!'
Ephraim pushed back his plate, and pulled Abigail's sausages from the basket. 'Lot of disgusting messes, if you ask me. Good food ruined by a mort of gluey gravies and sauces. Can't tell what you're eating. Don't touch that!' he thundered suddenly as Miranda put her spoon in a mixture of frozen fruits. 'It has spirits in it. I can smell it!'
The fruit had indeed been soaked in rum. Miranda put her spoon down. 'But Pa,' she said wistfully, 'it looks so good. Couldn't I just try to see? One bite couldn't really be intoxicating, could it?'
'Miranda!' cried Ephraim, shocked. 'Would you ever touch liquor in any form just because it looked good?'—
"No, Pa. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I guess.'
'Child, child,' said Ephraim not unkindly. 'How many sins you commit through thoughtlessness. You must wrestle with your spirit like Jacob wrestled with the angel. Here, I have something for you.'
He fished in his basket and brought out a small leather-bound Bible, quite new. 'It might be hard sometimes for you to read in the Van Ryn's Bible. I want you to keep this with you in your room. Study in it every day. I've marked some passages for you.'
'Oh, thank you, Pa!' she cried, touched. With the exception of the hair brooch, and that had been Abigail's idea, it was the only present she had ever received from her father. Ephraim had written her name on the fly leaf:
Miranda Wells, June, 1844, from her Father.
'Read me the Ninety-First Psalm now,' ordered Ephraim.
'Now!' protested Miranda unhappily. She was in a fever to look out the window at the fascinating street, to examine her sumptuous bedroom again, to rip some of the trimming off the unfortunate bonnet, and perhaps something could be done about the fichu; it might be turned under, made less conspicuous. Moreover the early afternoon in a hotel room seemed a strange time and place for Bible reading.
But to Ephraim there was never an unsuitable time for the contemplation of Holy Writ, and he felt its need now as a disciplinary measure for Miranda and as an antidote to the disintegrating influence he felt around him.
'Now,' he said inflexibly. 'I want to hear you read.' He sat straighter in his chair, folded his large gnarled hands, and waited.
When she came to the tenth verse, he stopped her and repeated it himself in his measured voice '"There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling." —I pray that may be so, Miranda, in the new life you're going to.'
Oh, pshaw, she thought
He walked into his room and shutting the door fell to his knees in prayer for Miranda.
His disquiet was increased later by the girl's behavior. Mr. Van Ryn, it seemed, had no limit to his forethought—or from Ephraim's viewpoint, foolish extravagance. He had ordered dinner for them. It arrived on trays borne by two black waiters just as Ephraim and Miranda were preparing to eat the bread and sausages and slices of pie that Abigail had packed in Ephraim's basket.
The dinner was colossal and composed entirely of items that neither of them recognized. Nor were they helped any by the gilded menu which was presented to them by one of the negroes.
It was written in gibberish—French, the waiter said in response to Miranda's timid question. She thereupon seized the menu and repeated the outlandish words to herself.
'Gigot d'agneau roti,'
murmured Miranda, pronouncing every letter carefully. 'I wonder what that is.
Tournedos de volaille. Compote de fruits glacés.'
She darted from one dish to another, sampling each. 'Oh, but isn't it all tasty! And so many different things!'
Ephraim pushed back his plate, and pulled Abigail's sausages from the basket. 'Lot of disgusting messes, if you ask me. Good food ruined by a mort of gluey gravies and sauces. Can't tell what you're eating. Don't touch that!' he thundered suddenly as Miranda put her spoon in a mixture of frozen fruits. 'It has spirits in it. I can smell it!'
The fruit had indeed been soaked in rum. Miranda put her spoon down. 'But Pa,' she said wistfully, 'it looks so good. Couldn't I just try to see? One bite couldn't really be intoxicating, could it?'
'Miranda!' cried Ephraim, shocked. 'Would you ever touch liquor in any form just because it looked good?'—
"No, Pa. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I guess.'
'Child, child,' said Ephraim not unkindly. 'How many sins you commit through thoughtlessness. You must wrestle with your spirit like Jacob wrestled with the angel. Here, I have something for you.'
He fished in his basket and brought out a small leather-bound Bible, quite new. 'It might be hard sometimes for you to read in the Van Ryn's Bible. I want you to keep this with you in your room. Study in it every day. I've marked some passages for you.'
'Oh, thank you, Pa!' she cried, touched. With the exception of the hair brooch, and that had been Abigail's idea, it was the only present she had ever received from her father. Ephraim had written her name on the fly leaf:
Miranda Wells, June, 1844, from her Father.
'Read me the Ninety-First Psalm now,' ordered Ephraim.
'Now!' protested Miranda unhappily. She was in a fever to look out the window at the fascinating street, to examine her sumptuous bedroom again, to rip some of the trimming off the unfortunate bonnet, and perhaps something could be done about the fichu; it might be turned under, made less conspicuous. Moreover the early afternoon in a hotel room seemed a strange time and place for Bible reading.
But to Ephraim there was never an unsuitable time for the contemplation of Holy Writ, and he felt its need now as a disciplinary measure for Miranda and as an antidote to the disintegrating influence he felt around him.
'Now,' he said inflexibly. 'I want to hear you read.' He sat straighter in his chair, folded his large gnarled hands, and waited.
When she came to the tenth verse, he stopped her and repeated it himself in his measured voice '"There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling." —I pray that may be so, Miranda, in the new life you're going to.'
Oh, pshaw, she thought
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