"I recollect her, though. It's about ten years now, ain't it? I was twelve then. I know I haven't forgot that big wedding-cake with the twelve dozen eggs in it."
"Really, Heaton?" said Miss Phillida, coloring with pleasure. "I was rather proud of that cake. Emma could make nice cake herself. I suppose she's had a chance to forget it. Her time's taken up other ways. Denver's quite a gay place, she says; and of course her husband's position requires her to go out a great deal."
This was uttered in a tone of proud satisfaction. Everybody in Bloomdale knew what a comfort it was to the solitary woman to talk about her sister. The Virginia beauty had married a western millionaire, and when at the monthly sewing society Miss Phillida read aloud her last Denver letter, these staid, but pleasure-loving Virginia matrons listened eagerly.
Young Heaton leaned back against the shelves in an easy, conversational attitude, and looked politely interested.
"Of course you know she's coming home to make a visit, Heaton?" The little lady's joy and yearning brimmed over her mild blue eyes, and she lowered her head, pretending to examine the goods.
"So I heard," said Heaton cordially. "We'll all enjoy seeing her, I'm shore."
"I expect her to-morrow," Miss Phillida cried excitedly. "By the morning train."
A vehicle drew up before the long porch, and the little woman endeavored to seem occupied with her purchase.
"I reckon this black and white'd be more appropriate to my years," she said in a critical tone. "But somehow I'm awfully in the notion of taking that pink."
"Take the pink, Miss Phillidy; and if you change your mind, we'll take it back and give you another in the place of it."