"I declare, it is worth while to be sick, isn't it, Bram?" said Frank, sitting up to take his cup of tea.
"Betsy isn't sick; she is an impostor out and out; and I more than half suspect Harry of shamming to escape the Miss Weilands. Such fine young ladies!"
"Oh dear, yes! And how could we bear to live so out of the world? And she should die in a week, she knew she should," said Frank, in a lackadaisical tone; "she didn't see how people endured existence out of the city. Didn't Rob Roy take her down?"
"What did he do? Something dreadful, I dare say."
"Not a bit. But you know his way of cogitating over a matter and bringing it out after every one else has finished. So after mother had successfully turned the conversation to wide skirts or narrow, and it was sailing along prosperously, out comes the McGregor:
"'Miss Weiland, how did you endure existence when you lived at Butternut Run? Because you did live there ever so long.'"
"Good!" exclaimed Betsy. "What did she say?"
"Oh, she pretended not to hear, and father gave Rob a pinch. The Weilands used to be nice people before they got above their circumstances."
"What do you mean?" asked Marion.
"Oh, you don't know the story. Well, there was a certain lady over in Ivanhoe who was famous for her good cooking, and, above all, for her pumpkin pies. One day her husband 'struck ile' and made a great fortune. Some time afterward mother asked her for a recipe for the said pies.