"Lord bless my soul, Margaret, you startled me," said she. "Whatever are you doing? Why don't you get to bed?"
"Joyce hasn't come up yet," I said.
She put down the candle, and came up to me and took hold of me by the shoulders.
"You've been frettin'," said she, sharply, looking down into my eyes. "Now, whatever is that for?"
"How dare you say such a thing?" answered I, pulling myself away. "I've not been fretting. I've nothing to fret about."
"Well, I don't know as you have," answered she; "but you've been fretting for all that. I've seen it for weeks past. What's it for?"
She stood there above me, with her arms akimbo, and her keen, round, dark eyes fixed upon me. It never occurred to her that I was not going to tell her what it was for.
"You've been frettin'," repeated she. "And what call you have to fret because Joyce's beau goes and falls off his horse is more than I can understand."
"I tell you I'm not fretting," repeated I, emphatically. "Of course what should it matter to me? I was surprised that Joyce took it so coolly. Some folk are so quiet. I suppose they feel just the same, but I'm sure you'd never know it. It's a mercy for them they don't make so much noise."