“Are they around again?” Mary asked, anxiously.
“Yes, so Captain Slocum told me. I met him and his men a-goin’ to Forty Fort. I told ’em their duty, and they looked quite sober about it.”
“I fear that terrible times are coming,” said Mary, sadly; “the Valley has never been in such confusion as it is now. Edward Clark could only stay with us a few moments last night, and won’t be back till evening.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Aunt Polly. “’Tisn’t proper for him to come till the minister does. I never was married myself, but I know what ought to be done as well as anybody—there’s nothing like being prepared, one never knows when an offer may pop up.”
She looked very meaningly at Mary, but the poor girl was too anxious and troubled to take notice of the peculiarity of the old maid’s manner.
“Don’t say a word to trouble grandma and Jane,” she said, when they reached the island; “it will do no good.”
“Of course not; when did you ever know me to speak the wrong word at the wrong minute? Give me that squash, Mary; handle it keerful—that’s it.”
She walked towards the house, and Mary, having secured the canoe, followed at a slower pace. Within the little kitchen there was a savor of chickens roasting, and various other eatables preparing for the evening. Mother Derwent was frying doughnuts when Aunt Polly entered, and she wiped her floury hands on her checked apron, in order to return her friendly greeting with due cordiality.
“Wal, Jane,” said the old maid, turning to Jane, who was rolling out pie-crust with great diligence; “how do you do? You see, we all have to come to it, first or last—but, law! the thought takes away my breath. I never can bear it as you do.”
“Why, Aunt Polly, do you think of getting married, too?” said Jane, laughing.