He shook his head doubtfully.
“The loft t’ the kerridge house is full of ’em, an’ the hay barn floor’s covered, an’ the’s a lot more in the ground, es I was sayin’.”
Miss Cottle seated herself on an upturned bushel-basket and gazed earnestly at the successful grower of onions.
“I wish to talk to you seriously, Mr. Morrison, on a subject very near my heart,” she said. “Will you not sit down on this box”—indicating a place at her side—“and listen?”
“I’d ought t’ be gittin’ them onions out th’ groun’,” protested Peg, with a wary glint in his eye. But he sat down gingerly on the edge of the box.
“I’ve been thinking deeply on the situation here on the farm,” pursued Miss Cottle. “I do not feel that I am doing right to remain here longer, under the circumstances.”
Peg fumbled the rampant locks behind his left ear, in a fashion he had when perplexed.
“Under the circumstances,” he repeated dubiously. “The circumstances is all right; ain’t they?”
“I appear to have dropped into the position of hired girl to Barbara Preston,” pursued the spinster acidly. “She did her own work previous to my coming; now I do most of it. But that isn’t all; I was engaged as housekeeper and caretaker for that boy. She was to go away and stay for five years.”
“Mebbe she’ll go soon now,” hazarded Peg. He shook his head slowly. “Kind o’ funny ’bout that business,” he murmured. “I dunno who in creation bid her in.”