“What gossip, Polly?”
“Then ye’ve not heerd? Good luck, I say.” Polly lifted her hands and brought them down on her knees as she sat down on a three-legged stool which she dragged forward. “Befoor I’d let a widdy woman cut me out!”
“What do you mean, Polly?”
Polly rocked herself back and forth in silent mirth. “It’s all over the settlemint how Archie M’Clean’s at the beck an’ call o’ a rich widdy from Pittsburg. His grandfether’s deid, did ye hear that?”
“Yes, I did hear that.”
“An’ lef’ Archie the half his estate, bein’ so pleased at his takin’ to the meenistry, an’ Archie comin’ back from Carlisle after the funeral meets the widdy, an’ she sets her cap fur him from the start, so the first thing the lad knows he’s well in the meshes. They say she’s no so ill favored, an’ that there’s sure to be a weddin’ when Archie gets his Reverend tacked on. The M’Cleans were ill pleased at first, but they are all but satisfied now, for though one can’t call them near, they’re canny, an’ Archie no less so than his father. ‘It’s the fat pig ay’ gets the maist grease,’ an’ so, Nancy, what do ye think o’ me dish o’ gossip? Didn’t I promise ye fair?”
“You did, Polly. I am glad and—sorry; one doesn’t like to lose a lover, though he be not the one who has won one’s heart. I’d never have thought Archie would be leaving me to wear the willow.”
“It’ll be no willow you wear. Where’s Carter Ritchie?”
“Carter!” Agnes spoke in a tone of contempt. “Why, Polly, he’s but a boy.”
“Where do ye get yer full-grown men? He’s six fut if he’s an inch.”