“To be sure, dear. What's more natural than that you'd like to spare your feelings, seeing all carried away just as if it was bankrupts you were. Indeed, Dan said to me the things wouldn't bring more than at a sheriff's sale, because of the hurry you were in to sell them off.”
“My uncle's orders were positive on that subject,” said Mary, calmly.
“Yes, dear, of course he knows best,” said she, with a shake of the head not exactly corroborating her own speech. “And how are you to live here by yourself, dear?” resumed she; “sure you 'll die of the loneliness!”
“I don't think so: I shall have plenty to occupy me,—more, indeed, than I shall be equal to.”
“Ay, in the daytime; but the long evenings—think of the long evenings, dear! God knows, I find them very often dreary enough, even though I have a home and Dan.”
“I 'm not afraid of the long evenings, my dear Mrs. Nelligan. It is the only time I can spare for reading; they will be my hours of recreation and amusement.”
“Well, well, I hope so, with all my heart,” said she, doubtingly. “You know yourself best, and maybe you'd be happier that way, than if you had somebody to talk to and keep you company.”
“I didn't say that,” said Mary, smiling. “I never implied that a visit from some kind friend—Mrs. Nelligan, for instance—would not be a very pleasant event in my solitude.”
“To come and see you,—to come to Cro' Martin!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan, as though trying to reconcile her mind to the bare possibility of such a circumstance.
“If you would not think it too far, or too much trouble—”