They were mostly of the class who listen, comment and observe.
“It’s easy to see that is a young married pair, with their first child,” whispered a fat, florid country woman, with one baby sitting on her knees and two on the floor at her feet.
“He won’t be quite so fond of loading himself down with, the kids when there’s a dozen of ’em, maybe,” replied her companion, a stout, brown woman with a burden of two heavy bundles and a basket on and about her.
The minister and his daughter heard every word of this whispered colloquy with slight smiles of amusement; but it warned them that they could not indulge in any very confidential discourse there, where every whispered word could be so distinctly heard.
All further explanations would have to be postponed until they should reach Medge Parsonage. And that was a hundred miles off as yet. Nothing but the commonplaces of conversation could pass between them.
“Are you quite comfortable, my dear?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You don’t feel the draught from that window?”
“No, papa dear.” Etcetera.
Jennie took particular pains to call her young father “papa” whenever she spoke to him.