“Down the well!” exclaimed Matthew. “No, indeed, ma’am; she’s up a tree. She’s up in the tiptopmost branch of the old Bell-flower apple-tree, and she won’t come down. She says she’s going to stay there all night, ma’am.”
“Stay there all night!” cried Miss Priscilla. “How ridiculous! She must come down at once.”
“Perhaps we can coax her down with something to eat,” said Miss Dorinda.
“Perhaps, ma’am,” said Matthew, his eyes twinkling.
“Bring us our things, Martha,” said Miss Priscilla, with a dogged, do-or-die air, “and then Matthew can show us where our niece is, and we will bring her back.”
“If yez do, she’ll come home holding the ribbons,” thought Matthew to himself, as he respectfully waited his mistresses’ pleasure.
Martha brought to each of the Flint ladies a long black cloak, a wool crocheted cloud, and black worsted gloves; for without such sufficient protection the sisters never went out after dusk.
“And I think rubbers, Martha,” said Miss Priscilla, anxiously scanning the sky.
“Oh, sister, the grass is as dry as a bone,” said Miss Dorinda.
“No signs of rain, ma’am,” said Matthew.