It was when the Reverend Campbell stood again on his feet, and the magpie one had rearranged her feathers, that their glances took in Peg where she now stood near the fire. She was silent, collected, and her calm look rested upon the Reverend Campbell and the magpie one. It was a steady glance of unseeing indifference and unacquaintance, and as though the pair were strangers to her.
Their actions, however, would smack of something nearer. No sooner did they behold Peg, than with one impulse they started towards her, faces a garden of smiles.
“Why, my dear Mrs. Eaton!” cried the magpie one.
“My dear, recovered lamb!” exclaimed the Reverend Campbell.
The two made for Peg with exuberant hands extended. Peg waved them off.
“You make a mistake,” said Peg. Her words took flight evenly and with nothing of disturbance. “I do not know you.” Then, as the Reverend Campbell and his magpie love seemed but half checked: “And I will not know you.”
These closing words were vibrant of a nipping vigor, and Peg's leopard teeth came together with a click, and, as it were, for emphasis. Peg turned to me:
“Will you take me to my carriage?”
With that, the General arose and cavaliered Peg to the door.
“Give my thanks to your good mother, child,” said the General, his fond eye pleasant with the reflection of Peg's pretty face; “tell her I shall profit by her kindness. I feel half restored with merely having the Dandelion Water on my shelf.”