“Nonsense, old Mildred—don’t be a fool,” said Charles Fairfield, not in so conciliatory a tone as Alice would have wished.
“Well, fool’s easily said, and there’s no lack o’ fools, high or low, Master Charles, and I don’t pretend to be no scholar; but I’ve read that o’er much laughing ends, ofttimes, in o’er much crying—the Lord keep us all from grief.”
“Hold your tongue—what a bore you are,” exclaimed he, sharply.
Mrs. Tarnley raised her chin, and looked askance, but made no answer, she was bitter.
“Why the devil, old Mildred, can’t you try to look pleasant for once?” he persisted. “I believe there’s not a laugh in you, nor even a smile, is there?”
“I’m not much given to laughin’, thankee, sir, and there’s people, mayhap, should be less so, if they’d only take warnin’, and mind what they seed over night; and if the young lady don’t want me no longer, I’d be better back in the kitchen before the chicken burns, for Lilly’s out in the garden rootin’ out the potatoes for dinner.”
And after a moment’s silence she dropped a little courtesy, and assuming permission, took her departure.
CHAPTER XIV.
A LETTER.
Alice looked a little paler, her husband a little discontented. Each had a different way of reading her unpleasant speech.
“Don’t mind that old woman, darling, don’t let her bore you. I do believe she has some as odious faults as are to be found on earth.”