Far down the street a man could be seen, slowly approaching. “Well, I’ve got to be trottin’,” said Sophie, fixing her hair and giving a touch to hat and dress.
“If Uncle Bob likes her, and I like her, and you like her,” argued Phœbe, “why doesn’t she come?”
“Maybe she’s tired at night. You know she works all day.”
“She sat up with me after—Mother died. She wasn’t tired then.”
“Well, now, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Everybody in town knows it, anyway. But you didn’t hear it from me, mind y’, if you happen to let it out——”
“I’ll remember.”
“Your Uncle Bob loves Miss Ruth, and he’d marry her if certain things wasn’t a fact.”
“What things?”
“Never mind. But this much I can tell y’: Miss Ruth don’t love your Uncle Bob, and she’ll never marry him, for the plain and simple reason that she loves somebody else.”
“Oh!—Who, Sophie?”