“It’s nearer that than anything else; ye wouldn’t call it black, would ye?” Polly asked.
“No, but mother calls it auburn, and that has a nice sound.”
“Go ’long wid ye,” cried Polly, “wid yer fancy names. Weel, Mr. Willett, yer no fashin’ yersel’ about us, these days, it’s clear.”
“It’s not what one desires in this world, but what he finds time to do, Polly. To prove that I’ve been thinking of you I have come over to ask you all to sup with me.”
Polly looked at her stained hands. “They’re a pretty looking pair for a party,” she declared.
“It’s no party; it is only for a very select and chosen few—yourself, Mrs. Kennedy, and Agnes. Will the dyeing be finished in time for you to come over this afternoon?”
“Why will it not? I’ll stop now.” She lifted the boiling dye from the fire, and with two sticks raised the pieces of cloth from the hot liquid, flinging them into a tub near by. “They’re weel enow colored,” she decided, “and I’ll finish up gin dinner-time. I’ve no gloves, Mr. Willett, an’ I’ll not get back the color of me hands afore the week’s out. Gin Sabbath day they beeta look better. Will ye have me so? I can never do a bit of dyeing, but I must give me hands the color of me goods, be it butternut, blue, or yellow. Agnes, there, gets but the tips of her fingers in, and is nigh greetin’ at that, so I threatened to give her hair the same color.”
“Be done, Polly,” cried Agnes, as Polly advanced upon her again, “I’ll not help you with the dyeing if you treat me so. Do be quiet. If you stop now, when will I get my linen dyed?”
“You’ll get it gin Tibb’s eve,” returned Polly, “if ye fa’ out wi’ me now.”
“Ah, but Polly—”