“No,” said Brother William, biting a great half-moon out of a slice of bread-and-butter, and then looking at it regretfully, as much as to say: “See what havoc I have made.”—“No, she wouldn’t. I don’t expect she’ll have any one at all.”
“Oh, there’s no knowing,” said Martha, refilling the visitor’s cup.
“No; there’s no knowing,” assented Brother William; and there was silence for a few minutes.
“You’ve never been over to see my farm, Martha Betts,” said Brother William, then.
“No; I have never been,” assented Martha in her quiet way.
“I should like you to come over alone, and see it,” said Brother William; “but I know you wouldn’t.”
“No; I would not,” said Martha.—“Was your last cup sweet enough?”
“Just right,” said Brother William thoughtfully.—“But you would come along with Fanny, and have tea, and look round at the beasts and the crops?”
“Yes,” said Martha, in the most matter-of-fact manner, as if the proposal had not the least interest for her. “But Fanny would not care to come.”
“I’ll make her,” said Brother William quietly; and he went on ruminating and gazing sleepily at the presiding genius of the tea-table. Then Fanny came back, took a magazine from her pocket, and went on reading and partaking of her tea at the same time, till Brother William said suddenly: “Fanny, I’ve asked Martha Betts and you to come over to tea o’ Friday, at the farm. Be in good time. I’ll walk back with you both.”