“Very well; my niece will be here directly.”
Lucy had just gone to her own room for some working materials.
“You had better come to an anchor on this seat, Mrs. Wilson,” said David.
“Thank ye kindly, young gentleman,” said Mrs. Wilson; and she settled her stately figure on the seat. “I have walked a many miles to-day, along of our horse being lame, and I am a little tired. You are one of the family, I do suppose?”
“No, I am only a visitor.”
“Ain't ye now? Well, thank ye kindly, all the same. I have seen a worse face than yours, I can tell you,” added she; for in the midst of it all she had found time to read countenances more mulierurn.
“And I have seen a good many hundred worse than yours, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson laughed. “Twenty years ago, if you had said so, I might have believed you, or even ten; but, bless you, I am an old woman now, and can say what I choose to the men. Forty-two next Candlemas.”
In the country they call themselves old at forty-two, because they feel young. In town they call themselves young at forty-two, because they feel old.
David found that he had fallen in with a gossip; and, being in no humor for vague chat, he left Mrs. Wilson to herself, with an assurance that Miss Fountain would be down to her directly.