Presently there came a ring to the front door bell. Mrs. Meadowsweet started up. Bee had some—no, it wasn't Bee—it was Mrs. Morris.
Her bronchitis was almost gone to-night; her voice was high, sharp and quick.
"Well, my poor friend, and how are you?" she said.
"I wish you wouldn't call me your poor friend, Jessie," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet, with almost irritation. "I don't know what has come to the good folks here of late—'Poor dearing,' and 'poor friending' till I'm sick of the sound of it. When I was married, people didn't look like boiled vinegar over it; neighbors were chirpy and cheery about a wedding in those days."
Mrs. Morris made no reply at all to this tirade. She sat down solemnly, and looked around her.
"Is Beatrice in?" she asked.
"No, she's not; she went to the Manor some hours ago—I'm expecting my girl back every minute. I've several things to say to her when she does come in, so you won't take it amiss, Jessie, if I ask you not to stay."
"No, my dear neighbor, I won't take anything amiss, from you at present, only, if I were you, I wouldn't worry Beatrice with advice to-night. Yon have time enough for that. Time and to spare for that, poor dear."
"There you are with your 'poor dear,' again, Jessie. Now whose ring is that at the bell? Oh, it's Bee, of course; come back at last, my girl has. Well, Jessie Morris, I wish you good-night."
"Stay a minute, neighbor—that isn't Bee's voice." The door was opened, and Miss Peters came in.