Miss
Penelope always spoke with a greater or less degree of suddenness and
irrelevance. She commonly said what she had to say at the instant that
the thought occurred to her, regardless of what others might be talking
or thinking about. The tenor of nearly everything that she said was
singularly gloomy. Her mind was full of superstition of a homely,
domestic kind. She was a great believer in signs, and the signs with
which she was most familiar were usually forewarnings of some great and
mysterious public or private calamity. Her voice was remarkably soft,
low, and sweet, so that to hear these alarming threats and these
appalling prophecies uttered in the tones of a cooing dove, was very
singular indeed.
"'Pon my word!" she now exclaimed, facing the room, but still keeping
close to the coffee-pot. "How you all can expect anything but terrible
troubles and awful misfortunes is more than I can understand. The
warning of that comet sent a-flying wild across the heavens is enough
for me."
No one noticed what she said--which certainly seemed to require no
notice; but it never made any difference to Miss Penelope whether her
remarks were warmly or coolly received.
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