Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman declared, then and afterward, that she wasn't a day older than when they said good-by to her thirty-five years ago. She wore the same gray curls and the same kind of cap. Also, they both declared that this was the climax, and that they should have wept aloud if it had not been so evident that to Miss Pinsett there was nothing in the meeting but happiness and good fortune, so they did not.
"Why, girls," said old Miss Pinsett again, clasping both their hands, "how glad I am to see you, and how well you are both looking!"
Then she insisted on their laying off their things, and they laid them off because they always had when she asked them.
"You've grown stout, Mary Greenleaf," said old Miss Pinsett.
"I know I have," she answered, "and I'm not Mary Greenleaf, though I sent that name up to you—I'm Mary Leonard."
"I wondered if neither of you were married."
"I'm a widow, Miss Pinsett," said Mary Leonard, soberly. "My husband only lived three years."
"Poor girl, poor girl!" said Miss Pinsett, patting her hand, and then she looked at the other.
"I'm Lucy Eastman still," she said; "just the same Lucy Eastman."
"And a very good thing to be, too," said Miss Pinsett, nodding her delicate old head kindly. "But," and she scanned her face, "but, now that I look at you, not quite the same Lucy Eastman—not quite the same."