Peggy was the first to recover herself. “Why, good afternoon, Jerry. But I guess we shan’t want any fish to-day.”
“You don’t suppose I’d sell fish on the Fourth, do you?” demanded Jerry with the impressive scorn of a patriot misjudged. “I thought maybe you’d like–like a little music, seeing it’s raining cats and dogs.” He had thrown apart his soaked coat as he spoke, and the bulging object proved to be a banjo, in a little flannel case, which Jerry hastily removed, twanging the strings of the instrument in his anxiety to ascertain the effect of the dampness on their constitution.
“Music! Why, that’s very nice of you, Jerry. Come into the next room and let me introduce you to Mrs. Tyler.” Peggy was a little in doubt as to the light in which Aunt Abigail would regard this unceremonious call from the youthful fish-vender. But the shrewd old lady was familiar with the customs of too many lands, not to be able to accommodate herself to the democratic simplicity of a country community. She gave Jerry her hand, insisted that he should take a seat by the fire, where his damp clothing would gradually dry, and forthwith called for “Dixie.” And hardly was the stirring melody well under way before the girls were keeping time with toes and fingers, and a general animation was replacing the temporary frigidity induced by Jerry’s advent. Jerry really played surprisingly well, and on a stormy day such an accomplishment stands its possessor in good stead.
But it was not left to Jerry to uphold the reputation of the community for sociability. The ringing of the front-door bell interrupted “The Suwannee River,” and Peggy, who was nearest the door, jumped up to answer the summons, while Hobo, a little ahead of her as usual, stood with his nose to the crack, gravely attentive, as if to satisfy himself as to the intentions of the new arrival. This time the open door revealed Rosetta Muriel, struggling to lower a refractory umbrella, with her hat tipped rakishly over one eye.
“Why, how do you do?” exclaimed Peggy, attempting to conceal her surprise under an effusive cordiality. “Come right in.” But Rosetta Muriel was not to be hurried. She closed her umbrella, righted her hat, and began fumbling in a little beaded bag which dangled from her wrist. All the heads were turned wonderingly toward the open door before she produced the object of her search, a gilt-edged card, upon which was written with many elaborate flourishes, “Miss Rosetta Muriel Cole.”
Peggy gazing upon this work of art, began to realize the importance of the occasion. Rosetta Muriel was making a call. “Will you walk in?” Peggy repeated, this time with proper decorum, and the caller entered and was presented to each of the company in order.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rosetta Muriel, primly, in acknowledgment of each introduction, but when Jerry’s turn came, both she and Peggy varied from the usual formula. “Of course you know Jerry Morton,” Peggy said, and Rosetta Muriel admitted the impeachment, with the stiffest of bows. If not pleased at meeting Jerry, it was evident that she was surprised to find him in Dolittle Cottage, and apparently quite at home.
The music ceased temporarily and conversation took its place. Rosetta Muriel, invited to lay aside her hat, declined with dignity and commented on the weather. After full justice had been done to that serviceable theme, Peggy introduced another.
“We’ve met such a nice girl several times when we’ve been picking berries. I suppose you know her?–Lucy Haines.”
“I know who you mean,” replied Rosetta Muriel coldly. “She ain’t in society, you know.”