He looked whimsically at the lady, whose earnest attention appeared to be divided pretty evenly between the shining heaps of vegetables and himself.
“I don’t believe I shall ever smell onions again without thinking of you, Peleg,” Miss Cottle observed sentimentally.
“‘’Tis sweet to be remembered,’” quoted Peg gallantly.
Miss Cottle sighed deeply; then started as if suddenly frightened by her own thoughts.
“What,” she demanded, dropping her basket, which was fortunately empty, “did I say?”
“W’y, nothin’ in pertic’lar, ma’am,” replied Peg. “You was speakin’ o’ disposin’ o’ th’ onions, an’——”
“Yes; but I called you by your Christian name. I called you—Peleg! What must you think of me?”
“Ev’rybody mostly calls me Peleg, er Peg. I ain’t pertic’lar es t’ that. But how ’bout them onions? You was sayin’——”
“I was about to inform you that my brother-in-law’s nephew is connected with the Washington Market in New York City,” said Miss Cottle, with a long, quivering sigh. “I had thought of writing to him, if you cared to have me. I should be glad to do something—for you, Peleg. There! I’ve said it again.”
“It’s mighty kind of you to write t’ your relation. I’m bleeged t’ you, ma’am. Washin’ton Market, Noo York City, soun’s good t’ me. But d’ye s’pose the’s folks enough thar t’ eat all them onions?”