The old man’s voice lapsed into silence; the light was becoming too dim for his reading.  Aunt Missouri turned and called over her shoulder into the shadows of the big hall:  “You Babe!  Go put two extra plates on the supper-table.”

The boys grew red from the tips of their ears, and as far as any one could see under their wilting collars.  Abner felt the lump of gum come loose and slip down a cold spine.  Had their intentions but been known, this inferential invitation would have been most welcome.  It was but to rise up and thunder out, “We came to call on the young ladies.”

They did not rise.  They did not thunder out anything.  Babe brought a lamp and set it inside the window, and Mr. Claiborne resumed his reading.  Champe giggled and said that Alicia made her.  Alcia drew her skirts about her, sniffed, and looked virtuous, and said she didn’t see anything funny to laugh at.  The supper-bell rang.  The family, evidently taking it for granted that the boys would follow, went in.

Alone for the first time, Abner gave up.  “This ain’t any use,” he complained.  “We ain’t calling on anybody.”

“Why didn’t you lay on the card?” demanded Ross, fiercely.  “Why didn’t you say:  ’We’ve-just-dropped-into-call-on-Miss-Champe.  It’s-a -pleasant-evening.  We-feel-we-must-be-going,’ like you said you would?  Then we could have lifted our hats and got away decently.”

Abner showed no resentment.

“Oh, if it’s so easy, why didn’t you do it yourself?” he groaned.

“Somebody’s coming,” Ross muttered, hoarsely.  “Say it now.  Say it quick.”

The somebody proved to be Aunt Missouri, who advanced only as far as the end of the hall and shouted cheerfully:  “The idea of a growing boy not coming to meals when the bell rings!  I thought you two would be in there ahead of us.  Come on.”  And clinging to their head-coverings as though these contained some charm whereby the owners might be rescued, the unhappy callers were herded into the dining-room.  There were many things on the table that boys like.  Both were becoming fairly cheerful, when Aunt Missouri checked the biscuit-plate with:  “I treat my neighbors’ children just like I’d want children of my own treated.  If your mothers let you eat all you want, say so, and I don’t care; but if either of them is a little bit particular, why, I’d stop at six!”

Still reeling from this blow, the boys finally rose from the table and passed out with the family, their hats clutched to their bosoms, and clinging together for mutual aid and comfort.  During the usual Sunday-evening singing Champe laughed till Aunt Missouri threatened to send her to bed.  Abner’s card slipped from his hand and dropped face up on the floor.  He fell upon it and tore it into infinitesimal pieces.

“That must have been a love-letter,” said Aunt Missouri, in a pause of the music.  “You boys are getting ’most old enough to think about beginning to call on the girls.”  Her eyes twinkled.