“But I cried too,” soothed Peggy. “Any one would who had the least bit of sensibility.”
“Does thee really think so, Peggy?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Peggy. “’Twas all in fun, and done on the impulse of the moment. But he says now that he sees ’twas wrong, and that he is sorry. Thee must forgive him, Sally.”
“Of course if he is sorry it makes a difference,” said Sally. “Somehow, Peggy, I am disappointed in him. Harriet always spoke so highly of him, and I liked him so much when he was with us, that it pains me to find him lacking in any respect. Well, if he is sorry, ’tis all right.”
“And I may tell him so?” asked Peggy eagerly. “I don’t want the poor fellow to have aught to wherrit him. He hath enough as it is.”
“Yes; thee may tell him, Peggy.” Sally slipped from the bed as she spoke and buried her face in the washing bowl. “After all, as thee said, ’tis naught to make such a pother about.”
“Will thee come home with me to see Harriet, Sally?”
“Not to-day, Peggy.” Sally began to brush her hair vigorously. “I will come in the morning. I want to think things over. Thee doesn’t mind?”
“No,” Peggy answered more troubled than she cared to admit over Sally. “Well, I shall see thee to-morrow then.”