“Oh, Archie, he doesn’t talk even when one is still, and to sit hours at a time gazing at another is not to my liking.”
“Puir Archie; he uses his eyes if not his tongue, and what is one better than the other to use?”
“I’d rather a wagging tongue than a blinking eye; it’s more cheerful,” responded Agnes.
“I misdoubt it when the tongue wags to your discredit,” returned Polly. “But, my fathers! who’s a longer tongue than mesel’? An’ I’m not one to run down me own most spakin’ attrybutes.”
“Ah, but you never speak ill of any one, Polly. Here, let me stir the mush and you take the baby; he is fretting for you.”
“He’s frettin’ for his sleep,” said Polly. “Sure he’s wor’d out with creepin’ the floor. I’ll put him in his cradle and he’ll drop off.” She drew the cradle from the corner; a queer little affair it was, made of a barrel sawed across halfway, then lengthwise, and set upon clumsy rockers, but baby found his bearskin as soft as any mattress could be, and the lullaby of his little four-year-old sister as sweet as any music.
“Land! but I clane forgot to tell ye,” exclaimed Polly, when the baby was settled; “there’s to be a housewarming next week.”
“Oh, whose?” cried Agnes.
“Johnny McCormick’s.”
“Then he’s married.”