d manfully and with an
outward serenity that amazed even himself he gracefully slid into a
seat, having first gallantly stepped aside to permit his gracious lady
to be seated. And life being that morning especially a thing of tender
humor, they had no sooner settled themselves comfortably when Fanny
Foster, the last comer, sank down beside them, breathing heavily.

Fanny Foster was always late for church, not from any notion that a
late entrance was fashionable but because of some hitch in her domestic
affairs. She always explained to the congregation afterward just what
had caused her delay and the congregation was always ready to listen to
her excuses, for they were as a rule highly original ones.

Fate was always sending Fanny the most thrilling experiences at the
most improper times. The children were always falling into the cistern
or setting the barn afire as she was about to start out somewhere. And
such things as buttonhooks and hairpins had a way of disappearing just
when she was in the greatest hurry. Not that the lack of these toilet
necessities ever stopped Fanny from attending any town function.

If the buttonhook could not be found she set out with her shoes
unbuttoned, borrowing the necessary implement on the way. If she had
no hairpins she put her hair up temporarily with two knitting needles
or lead pencils or anything like that that came handy, stopped at
Jessup's, bought her hairpins, and while reporting news in Mrs. Green's
kitchen did up her hair without the aid of brush, comb or mirror.

This trait Fanny came by naturally. She had had a droll grandmother.
It was authentic history that once at the very moment when she was
getting ready to attend a Green Valley funeral this grandmother's false
teeth broke, leaving her somewhat dazed. But only for a moment, for
she was a woman with a perfect memory. She suddenly remembered that
the wife of the deceased had an old emergency set; so, slipping through
the back streets, she arrived at the house of grief, borrowed the new
widow's old teeth and wept as copiously and sincerely, albeit a little
carefully, over the remains as any one else there.

Now, scarcely waiting to regain her breath, Fanny turned to Nanny with
the usual explanations, only stopping to exclaim over Barney--"Land
sakes, Barney, what are you doing here!" A breath and then in sibilant
whispers:

"Well--I thought I'd never get here. When I come to dress I found the
children ha