The letter was sealed and stamped on the table beside her and Miss Finch was lying awake wondering whether the tongue of slander would be set wagging if she should decide on giving the Doolittle cottage a thorough cleaning before taking the step that would make her its permanent mistress, when Phemie came blundering up the stairs.
Miss Finch sprang out of bed and, candle in hand, appeared in the doorway. She shook a chiding finger at the girl. "Don't make such a racket," she hissed. "Everybody's been in bed for hours. You oughtn't to stay out so late, Phemie. It don't look right in a young girl."
Phemie did not seem aware that she was being scolded. She was full of silly giggles and pleased to find a confidante to share her amusement. She pushed her way uninvited into Miss Finch's room.
"I never had so much fun in my life," wheezed Phemie in what she mistakenly supposed to be a whisper. "Oh, my goodness, I've laughed fit to bust myself."
"Where've you been?" demanded Miss Finch, eying her disapprovingly.
"I've been to a shivaree. Whole crowd of us went. We had horns and tin pans and Ernie Cox took a cow-bell along. Oh, my goodness!" Phemie placed her hands on her hips, and rocked back and forth in an ecstasy of mirth.
Miss Finch's severity became more pronounced. "I think you might have been in better business. Deacon Wiggins has been married quite a few times, I know, but he's a good citizen and a pillar of the church."
"'Twarn't Deacon Wiggins. 'Twas Jim Doolittle. He just got married to that cross-eyed old maid who used to work at Phelps' store."
When Miss Finch could get rid of Phemie she tore the letter she had so painstakingly composed into the minutest fragments, promising herself to burn them in the morning before any one was up. Innocent as her intentions had been, the fact remained that she had written a compromising letter to a married man, and she could not feel safe till the sole evidence of her indiscretion had been reduced to ashes. As she climbed back into bed she might perhaps have been excused for indulging in pessimistic reflections on masculine perfidy, and the hollowness of lovers' vows, but in point of fact her mood was eminently Christian. To her own secret amazement she was chiefly conscious of overwhelming relief.