“Well, I can darn the sheets and see to Betsy,” said Marian. “If you like, I’ll make the pie.”
“I dare say!” Hannah answered ungratefully, “I know what your pies are like.”
Marian allowed the question to drop. Discussion with Hannah was at all times useless. When once she had made an assertion, however recklessly, she would cling to it afterwards with a bull-dog tenacity. Marian had a light hand for pastry, but one batch of pies had proved a failure in the course of the winter; and Hannah never forgot it.
The old farmer vanished, and his son also. Marian helped to clear away the dinner-things; ran upstairs to attend to the prostrate Betsy; then settled herself near the window of the large kitchen for a prolonged darning of sheets. About an hour passed thus uninterruptedly. Hannah usually chose to perform bread-making in the airy back kitchen, so Marian was left to herself. She worked steadily for an hour, sometimes singing softly; and then pausing for a dreamy gaze out of the window, in the midst of which her sister entered.
“That’s the way to get work done!” Hannah remarked with a grim derisiveness.
“I am not wasting time, Hannah,” said Marian. “It’s only—”
“Oh, you’re not, ain’t you?” interrupted Hannah.
“No. My hand is tired, and I’m taking ten minutes’ rest. Two sheets are done.”
“Well, there’s plenty more that wants doing,” said Hannah.
Exit Hannah, and enter Jervis in her stead. His flushed face and audible breathing told their own tale.