“Just take that chair by the window, Mrs. Harricutt,” she said affably, “and excuse me fer not getting up. I've got to get these apples on the fire, for I promised Mark some apple sauce for lunch, and he likes it stone cold.”
Mrs. Harricutt pricked up her ears:
“Oh, Mark is coming home for lunch then!” Her voice was cold, sharp, like a steel knife dipped in lemon juice. There was a bit of a curl on the tip of it that made one wince as it went through the soul. Little Mrs. Carter flushed painfully under her sensitive skin, up to the roots of her light hair. She had been pretty in her girlhood, and Mark had her coloring in a stronger way.
“Oh, yes, he's coming home for lunch,” she answered brightly, glad of this much assurance. “And he has to have it early because he has to drive that strange young woman from the parsonage back somewhere down in New Jersey. She came alone by herself yesterday, but the mountain passes sort of scairt her, and she asked Mark to drive back with her.”
“Oh!” There was a challenge in the tone that called the red to Mrs. Carter's cheek again, But Christie McMertrie's soft burring tongue slid in smoothly:
“What wad ye think o' the briar pattern around the edge? I know it's some worruk, but it's a bonnie border to lie under, an' it's not so tedious whan there's plenty o' folks to tak a hand.”
They carried the topic along with a whirl then and Mrs. Harricutt had no more chance to harry her hostess. Then suddenly Mary arose in a panic:
“I left my pies in the oven!” she cried, “They'll be burned to a crisp. I must go. Miz Harricutt, are you going along now? I'll walk with you. I want to ask you how you made that plum jam you gave me a taste of the other day. Jim thinks it is something rare, and I'll have to be making some or he'll never be satisfied, that is if you don't mind—!” and before Mrs. Carter realized what was happening Mary had marshalled the Harricutt vulture down the street, and was questioning eagerly about measures of sugar and plums and lemon peel and nuts:
“Now,” said Christie setting down her jelly glass that she had been holding all this time, “We'll be ganging awa. There's a bit jar of raspberry jam for the laddie with the bright smile, an' you think it over and run up and say which pattern you think is bonniest.”
“It was just beautiful of you all to come—” said little Mrs. Carter looking from one to another in painful gratitude—“why it's been just dear for you to run in this way—”