Mrs. Peverell stared into her eyes.
"I have three sisters older than me," Mary went on. "Four girls--four women. We're none of us married. None of us was ever as pretty or sweet as you were when that photograph was taken of you in the other room."
The silence that fell between them then as Mrs. Peverell gazed at her was more significant than words. For all they said, once understanding, they did not need words. Indications of speech sufficed.
"Did any of 'ee want to be married?" asked the farmer's wife. "Did you?"
"Did you?" replied Mary.
"I wanted a good man," said she, "and I got him."
"Yes, but looking back on it now--all these years--back to that photograph in there, was that what you wanted?"
All this time Mrs. Peverell had been holding her needles as though at any moment the conversation might command her full attention no longer and she would return to her knitting. Definitely, at last she laid it in her lap and, leaning forward, she set her eyes, now lit indeed, upon Mary's face before her.
"'Ee know so much," said she slowly. "How did 'ee learn? What is it 'ee have to tell me?"
Without fear, Mary met her gaze. Long it was and keen but she met it full, nor turned, nor dropped her eyes. Brimmed and overflowing that silence was as they sat there. Words would have been empty sounds had they been spoken. Then, but not until it had expressed all their thoughts, Mrs. Peverell's lips parted.