Harriet ceased, and her needles clicked on irritatingly. Mrs. Strang burst forth:
“You might ask a body the news.”
“What news can there be down to Ole Hey’s?” Harriet snapped.
“Deacon Hailey,” began Mrs. Strang, curiously stung by the familiar nickname, and pricked by resentment into courage; then her voice failed, and she concluded, almost in a murmur, “is a-thinkin’ of marryin’ agen.”
“The ole wretch!” ejaculated Harriet, calmly continuing her crocheting.
“He’s not so ole!” expostulated Mrs. Strang, meekly.
“He’s sixty! Why, you might as well think o’ marryin’! The idea!”
“Oh, but I’m on’y thirty-five, Harriet!”
“Well, it’s jest es ole. Love-makin’ is on’y for the young.”
“Thet’s jest where you’re wrong, Harriet. Youth is enjoyment enough of itself. It is the ole folks that hev nothin’ else to look fur thet want to be loved. It’s the on’y thing thet keeps ’em from throwin’ up the position, an’ they marry sensibly. Young folks oughter wait till they’ve got sense.”