“Well, I never see! You never will learn any gumption! Why don’t you look what you’re about? Now, go around Christmas with your finger all tied up!”
“Oh, that’ll be all right by to-morrow,” said Mrs. Eliot, cheerfully. “Won’t it, Emarine? Never cry over spilt milk, Mrs. Endey; it makes a body get wrinkles too fast. O’ course Orville’s mother’s comin’ to take dinner’ with you, Emarine.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Emarine, in a sudden flutter. “I don’t see why them cranberries don’t come! I told Orville to hurry ’em up. I’d best make the floatin’ island while I wait.”
“I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I came along.”
“How?” Emarine turned in a startled way from the table.
“I say, I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I come along, Emarine.”
“Oh!”
“She well?” asked Mrs. Endey.
“No, she ain’t; shakin’ like she had the Saint Vitus dance. She’s failed harrable lately. She’d b’en cryin’; her eyes was all swelled up.”
There was quite a silence. Then Mrs. Endey said—“What she b’en cryin’ about?”