"Oh, do let me speak, Mis' Weight!" broke in Direxia, in a shrill half-whisper. "Don't speak so loud! She'll hear ye, and she's in one of her takings, and I dono—lands sakes, I don't know what to do! I dono who he is, or whence he comes, but she—"
"Direxia Hawkes!" barked Mrs. Tree from the head of the stairs.
"There! you hear her!" murmured Direxia. "Oh, she is the beat of all! I'm comin', Mis' Tree!"
She fled up the stairs; her mistress, bending forward, darted a whispered arrow at her.
"Oh, my Solemn Deliverance!" cried Direxia Hawkes.
"Hot water, directly, and don't make a fool of yourself!" said Mrs. Tree; and her stick tapped its way down-stairs.
"Good evening, Malvina. What can I do for you? Pray step in."
Mrs. Weight sidled into the parlor before a rather awful wave of the ebony stick, and sat down on the edge of a chair near the door. Mrs. Tree crossed the room to her own high-backed armchair, took her seat deliberately, put her feet on the crimson hassock, and leaned forward, resting her hands on the crutch-top of her stick, and her chin on her hands. In this attitude she looked more elfin than human, and the light that danced in her black eyes was not of a reassuring nature.
"What can I do for you?" she repeated.
Mrs. Weight bridled, and spoke in a tone half-timid, half-defiant.