Miss Cottle buried her face in her hands.
“I supposed,” she went on, in a smothered voice, “that you had more regard for the sacred feelings of a good woman. I thought, Peleg, you—cared—a little—for me.”
“Oh, my! Gosh—goll—durn—what—in—thunder——”
Miss Cottle’s strong, determined hand shot out and fastened tentacle-like upon the unfortunate Peleg’s sleeve.
“I shall leave this very day—never to return,” she said, in a hollow voice, “unless you and I come to an understanding. I cannot endure it longer.”
“O Lord!” exclaimed Peg prayerfully.
“I love that dear little boy as if he was my own,” pursued Miss Cottle sentimentally, “and I feel that my duty calls me to remain and care for him; but——”
“I reelly hope you won’t go on my ’count, ma’am,” faltered Peg, moved by these protestations and once more mindful of Barbara’s exhortations.
“Peleg!” exclaimed Miss Cottle beatifically, and instantly relaxed upon his shoulder.