Miss Dawes had risen and was peering out of the window.
“I was looking to see if my driver was anywhere about,” she replied. “I thought perhaps he would drive over to Mrs. Atwood's and get the diary for you. But I don't see him.”
Just then, from around the corner of the house, peeped an agitated face; an agitated forefinger beckoned. Debby stepped to the window beside her visitor, and the face and finger went out of sight as if pulled by a string.
Miss Phoebe smiled.
“I think I'll go out and look for him,” she said. “He must be near here. I'll be right back, Mrs. Beasley.”
Without stopping to put on her jacket, she hurried through the dining room, out of the door, and around the corner. There she found Mr. Bangs in a highly nervous state.
“Why didn't you tell me 'twas Debby Beasley you was comin' to see?” he demanded. “If you'd mentioned that deef image's name you'd never got ME to drive you, I tell you that!”
“Yes,” answered the teacher sweetly. “I imagined that. That's why I didn't tell you, Mr. Bangs. Now I want you to do me a favor. Will you drive over to Trumet Center, and deliver a note and get a package for me? Then you can come back here, and I shall be ready to start for home.”
“Drive! Drive nothin'! The blacksmith's out, and won't be back for another hour. His boy's there, but he's a big enough lunkhead to try bailin' out a dory with a fork, and that buggy axle is bent so it's simply got to be fixed. I'd no more go home to Ketury with that buggy as 'tis than I'd—Oh! my land of love!”
The ejaculation was almost a groan. There at the corner, ear trumpet adjusted, and spectacles glistening, stood Debby Beasley. Bailey appeared to wilt under her gaze as if the spectacles were twin suns. Miss Dawes looked as if she very much wanted to laugh. The widow stared in silence.