“Then there will be room for both of you, Maggie.”
Frances rose from the table, and stood looking though the window where the sun’s friendly hand had reached in to caress her a few minutes gone. There was no gleam of it now, only a dull redness on the horizon where it had fallen out of sight, the red of iron cooling upon the anvil.
“In four weeks he will be able to kneel at the altar with you,” said Maggie, making a clatter with the stove lids in her excitement, “and in youth that is only a day. And I have a drawn piece of fine linen, as white as your bosom, that you must wear over your heart on that day. It will bring you peace, far it was made by a holy sister and it has been blessed by the bishop at Guadalupe.”
“Thank you, Maggie. If that day ever comes for me, I will wear it.”
Maggie came nearer the window, concern in her homely face, and stood off a little respectful distance.
“You want to be with him, you should be there at his side, and I will open the door for you,” she said.
“You will?” Frances started hopefully.
“Once inside, no man would lift a hand to put you out.”
“But how am I going to get inside, Maggie, with that sentry at the door?”