"How are you, Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, running up to the good lady and giving her a kiss, which resembled the peck of an eager bird, on her cheek. "I ran on first, and Martha is following. I came to know how you are, and how you're bearing up—and is Beatrice in?"
"I do declare," said Mrs. Meadowsweet. She rose from her easy-chair. "You mean to be good-natured, neighbors, but really you're enough to deave one. How am I bearing up? Am I the woman to bring ill-luck to my child by crying at her wedding? No, she's not in—she's at the Bertrams. But there's her ring now at the hall-door. Good-night, neighbors both. You mean it kindly, but don't stay just now. I have a word or two to say to the girl in private to-night."
"I think that's Martha's voice," said Miss Peters. "Don't say that I told you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet."
The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.
This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attained to all the airs of a victorious general. Her bonnet-strings were thrown back, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absence of her large white brooch, was bared to view.
"Well, my friend," she said. "Well, the time is near."
She took Mrs. Meadowsweet's fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked with awful solemnity into her eyes.
"Good gracious," said the poor woman. "I never felt more exasperated in all my life. Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in the harbor from the faces you one and all bring me."
"Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, "there is such a thing as having the body safe and well, and the character drowned."
Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks flushed deeply.