"It's so small and petty and spiteful. All last evening I had to sit and listen to gossip. I hate personalities. Why, whatever I do is going to be seen and talked about the minute I do it."
Jane looked grave. "That nice woman who came out to meet you didn't look like a gossip."
"She isn't, but she sits and listens, and every once in a while she throws oil on the fire by saying, 'I never believed the story.'"
"Who did the talking?"
"The neighbors—a woman named Mrs. Mead, who came in with her daughter. The mother was old-fashioned in her ideas, and the daughter was new. That old man in the stage stopped there, you know."
"My aunt spoke of them last evening," said Jane; "she said that Emily Mead was picked out to marry that young man who came down with us."
Madeleine laughed and then blushed. "I'm afraid not," she said. "I know him. He won't marry anybody here."
Jane turned and began to put away the breakfast things.
"Don't be bored," she said gently. "Put on this extra apron, and help me wash these dishes; and then I'll set the kitchen to rights and get ready to move my aunt into another bedroom. She's an invalid, you know."
"What kind of a person is your aunt?"