"You said something then, Miss Peckham," said Mr. Day, cheerfully, and began industriously daubing the stove covers.
"I brought Mrs. Watkins in here to see you, Mr. Day, 'cause I got your welfare and hers at heart," pursued the spinster.
That sounded rather ominous, and Mr. Day poised the dauber and stared doubtfully from his neighbor to the washed-out looking woman.
"Mrs. Watkins is a widow," went on Miss Peckham.
Mr. Day made a sympathetic sound with his lips, but fell to polishing now, making the stove covers rattle. Miss Peckham raised her voice a notch. "She's a widow, and she's seen trouble."
"We're born to it—as the sparks fly upward," observed
Mr. Day, under his breath.
"Mrs. Watkins has come to an age when nobody can say she's flighty, I sh'd hope," continued Miss Peckham. "She's settled. And she's got to earn her livin'."
"Now, Marthy!" objected Mrs. Watkins.
"Well, 'tis so, Sophrony, ain't it?" demanded her friend.
"Oh, of course, expenses are heavy, and it's desirable that I should—should—well, add to my income. But I've come to no great age, Marthy Peckham, I'd have you know!"