“Back and forth, over and under; not a thread lost. When a work is to be done, Perseverance, I can wait.”
“And while we wait, John is every day more and more deluded.”
“Did you ever notice that little spot, like a drop of blood, on the shoulder of Hope Vines?”
“It is plain enough to be seen,” returned Perseverance, running up a long needleful of stitches upon a new seam.
“Did you ever see any natural-born, true human creature, with such fiery dark eyes, and black brows, and a head of white hair to make you think of the pale horse of the Revelations?” continued Nancy, remorselessly pricking in and out, over and under, her little web, and at each time wounding the yellow gourd.
“I never did, and I never want to see such another.”
“Did you ever see a face that is as white as if every stain had been bleached out in the frost and snow—out all day, rain or shine, hot or cold, yet never browned, never burnt, while the two lips are like two red cherries?”
“You know, now, Nance, she is as handsome as any picture; there’s no getting over that, so don’t spin out what you are going to say, but out with it.”
“Well, then, if I must say it, here ’tis. I believe Hope Vines is a born devil—an incarnate imp, and that the soul of John is in jeopardy.”
Mistress Bonyton had not removed her eyes from the pair fishing upon the rocks, and Dame Higgins had continued to knot mesh after mesh, twanging the knots, each one with a sharp bite, like a hiss, while the two girls pursued the above conversation in a low but querulous tone of voice.