“Yes, I’ll go,” said Mary, looking wistfully into the distance; “of course, I’ll go.”
“That’s a good gal—I was sure you would. Now, I’ll jest say good-by to Miss Derwent, and Gineral Washington and I will make tracks for home.”
Aunt Polly strode away up the garden, muttering to herself:
“Wal, I’ve killed two birds with one stone, and catch’d a goldfinch to boot. That ’ere side-saddle wasn’t mounted for nothing. If vartue al’es gets rewarded in this way, I’ll keep Gineral Washington a-going.”
These muttered thoughts brought the old maid up to the cabin, and she called out from the threshold:
“Jane, remember what I was a-saying, now do. When will you all come and take tea with me? Shall be proper glad to see you any time—the sooner the better. Good-bye, Miss Derwent; good-bye all.”
Here Aunt Polly gave a comprehensive sweep of the hand, including grandma in the house, Mary in the garden, and Jane, who stood by her on the door-stone.
“Good-bye all. Come, Janey, set me on the other side, and I’ll speak a good word for you to the beaus when they come to my tavern.”
Jane tied a handkerchief over her head, followed the old maid to the cove, unmoored her canoe, and soon reached the western shore.
Aunt Polly shook her by the hand, repeated a word of grim advice, then mounted the bank and threw out her handkerchief as a signal to Gineral Washington.