"I know I have a bad temper," said I; "but I don't see that that has anything to do with the matter."
I suppose something in the way I said it must have touched old Deb, who had a soft heart for all her rough ways, for she said in her topsy-turvy way:
"Well, there—no more I don't see that it has. All I mean is that if you let him alone he'll let you alone, and no harm done. You'll have the more time for your books and for looking after your clothes a bit. You know I've often told you you'll never get a beau so long as you go about gypsying as you do."
"Deborah, how dare you!" cried I, angrily. "You know very well that—"
"That I wouldn't have a lover for anything in the world," I was going to say, and deeply perjure myself; but at that very moment mother opened the door and looked into the kitchen. She had her spectacles still on her nose, and an open letter in her hand.
"Margaret, I want you," said she, shortly, "in the parlor."
"I can't come just now, mother," answered I. "The cakes will burn."
"Deborah will see to the cakes," said mother, and I knew by her tone of voice that I must do as she bade me. "I want you at once."
I knew what it was about. Two days ago I had had a letter from Joyce. It gave me no news; she had got on with her tapestry; she had trimmed herself a new bonnet; Aunt Naomi's rheumatism was no better; she hoped that father's gout had not returned—no news until the very end. Then she said she had been to the Royal Academy of pictures in London, with an old lady who lived close to Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met Captain Forrester.
Certainly this was a big enough piece of news to suffice for one letter. But why had Joyce put it at the very end? and why did she hurry it over as quickly as possible, making no sort or kind of comment upon it? It was another of the things about Joyce that I could not make out. Why was she not proud of her engagement? Why did she never care to speak of it? I thought that if I were engaged to a man whom I loved I should be very proud of it, whereas she always seemed anxious to avoid the subject.