Rebecca glanced at the bed.
It had not been touched.
"Well, I declare!" Rebecca exclaimed. "Ain't you ever agoin' to fix up your room, Phœbe Wise?"
"Oh, in a minute, Rebecca. I was just agoin' over my trunk a minute."
She leaned back against the foot of the bed, and folding her hands gazed pensively into vacancy, while Rebecca stared at her in astonishment.
"Do you know," Phœbe went on, "I've ben thinkin' it's awful mean not to give you a chance to go back to 1876, Rebecca. Joe Chandler's a mighty fine man!"
Rebecca gave vent to an unintelligible murmur and turned to Phœbe's bed. She grasped the mattress and gave it a vicious shake as she turned it over. She was probably only transferring to this inoffensive article a process which she would gladly have applied elsewhere.
There was a long silence while Rebecca resentfully drew the sheets into proper position, smoothed them with swift pats and caressings, and tucked them neatly under at head and sides. Then came a soft, apologetic voice.
"Rebecca!"
The spinster made no reply but applied herself to a mathematically accurate adjustment of the top edge of the upper sheet.