Mrs. Post, a painfully plain and stolidly built woman of middle age, was busily engaged at the range, cooking. She turned a kindly face on hearing Margaret’s voice.
“Pleased to meet ye, Miss Barton.” She wiped her hands deliberately on a clean apron and let them drop resignedly. Then, seeing the hand of Helène stretched towards her, she seized it with a glad smile.
“So ye be Miss Fisher’s friend, be ye? Maybe ye’re tired after yer long trip, hain’t ye, miss?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Post, the journey was delightful and new; especially the drive to the house.”
“Waal, I guess it be. I ain’t had a ride ter the city for nigh on five years. I mean Paterson. I’ve never been to Noo York all my life. But ain’t ye hungry? Dinner’ll be most ready in an hour—can ye wait that long, miss?”
Helène could and gladly would.
The two friends retired to rest in the shade of the roomy porch, and to exchange confidences. There were not many but, such as they were, they were interesting to them since they were born of their own lives.
Margaret betrayed an anxiety lest others who were more wealthy and could offer more pleasure and comforts, might entice Helène away from her. Her questions were carefully framed, however, and Helène replied frankly and freely. She had not seen Mr. Van Dusen more than she could help. She had really thought little or nothing about him. Her mind had been too much occupied with her work and with thinking of Margaret.
Margaret, however, was not quite satisfied and persisted in putting more questions all bearing on the same subject, until Helène was quite puzzled.
“What is it you are driving at, Margy? Tell me, now—what’s in your head?”