On one of these early mornings when I had been there about three weeks, our drowsiness at the breakfast table was dispelled by the arrival of two early callers—each on business.
Gram was pouring the coffee, when the outer door opened and a tall, sallow, dark-complexioned woman entered, the same whom I had met on the Meadow Brook bridge, while leading Little Dagon. She wore a calico gown and sun-bonnet, and may have been fifty years of age; and she walked in quite as a matter of course, saying, "How do you do, Joseph, how do you do, Ruth?" to the Old Squire and Gram.
"Why, how do you do, Olive?" said Gram, but not in the most cordial of tones. "Will you have some breakfast with us?"
"I have been to breakfast, Ruth," replied this visitor, throwing back her sun-bonnet and thereby displaying a forehead and brow that for height and breadth was truly Websterian. "I came to get my old dress that I left here when I cleaned house for you last spring, and I should also like that dollar that's owing me."
"Olive," rejoined Gram severely, "I do not owe you a dollar."
"Ruth," replied the caller with equal severity, "you do owe me a dollar."
She proceeded, as one quite familiar in the house, to the kitchen closet and took therefrom an old soiled gingham gown.
"Olive," said the Old Squire, "are you quite sure that there is a dollar due you here?"
"Joseph," replied the lofty-browed woman, "do you think I would say so, if I did not know it?"
"No, Olive, I don't think you would," said the Old Squire.