“‘Yes,’ says she, ‘that is the island and Derwent is the name. She has two daughters, I believe.’
“‘Two granddaughters,’ says I.
“‘Granddaughters, are they? And de you know these girls?’ says she.
“‘Well, yes, I reckon so,’ says I, ‘and mighty smart gals they are. Jane’s a beauty, without paint or whitewash, I can tell you; and as for Mary——’ But no matter what I said about you, my dear; it wasn’t all you deserved, but——”
“No matter—oh, there was no need of saying anything about me,” murmured the deformed, shrinking within herself, as she always did when her person was alluded to.
Aunt Polly paused abruptly, and began to whip a sweet-briar bush near her with great vigor. She had but a vague idea of all the keen sensitiveness her words had disturbed, but that was sufficient; her rough, kind heart was troubled at the very idea of giving pain to that gentle girl.
“Well, I only said if ever there was an angel on earth, you was one; but I’m sorry as can be, now; I wouldn’t ’a’ said so for the world if I’d thought you didn’t like it,” pleaded the old maid with deprecating meekness. “You know, Mary Derwent, I always thought you was the salt of the ’arth—that’s the worst I will say of you any how, like it or not.”
“But the woman, Aunt Polly—the strange lady with that living serpent around her head—what did she want of Jane and me?” inquired Mary, keenly interested in the subject. “What could she mean by inquiring about grandmother?”
“Not knowing, can’t tell, Miss Mary. She fell to thinking, with her hand up to her forehead—a purty hand it was, too—afore I’d done talking; at last says she:
“‘That is the one I wish to speak with.’