“Worth all the hundreds of pounds in the world,” observed Margaret, coming in her turn to see and feel the little pearly edge, whose value its owner was far from appreciating, while worried with the inquisition which was made into the mysteries of his mouth. “Now it is a pity that Morris is not here!” all exclaimed.
“We must write to her. Perhaps we might have found it yesterday, if we had had any idea it would come so soon.”
No: Hester was quite positive there was no tooth to be seen or felt last night.
“Well, we must write to Morris.”
“You must leave me a corner,” said Hope. “We must all try our skill in describing a first tooth. I will consider my part as I walk. Bite my finger once more before I go, my boy.”
The sisters busied themselves in putting the parlour in order, for the reception of any visitors who might chance to call, though the streets were so deep in snow as to render the chance a remote one. Margaret believed that, when the time should come, she might set the potatoes over the parlour fire to boil, and thus, without detection, save the lighting another fire. But before she had taken off her apron, while she was in the act of sweeping up the hearth, there was a loud knock, which she recognised as proceeding from the hand of a Grey. The family resemblance extended to their knocks at the door.
As if no snow had fallen, Mrs Grey and Sophia entered.
“You are surprised to see us, my dears, I have no doubt. But I could not be satisfied without knowing what Mr Hope thinks of this epidemic, this terrible fever, which every one is speaking about so frightfully.”
“Why, what can he think?”
“I mean, my dear, does he suppose that it will come here? Are we likely to have it?”