Making no attempt to hide the fact that she had been crying, the old lady straightened herself, and said in a trembling voice: “Ye’ll be havin’ no more contrairy times with me, yerself and Master Hughie, for the little lassie hit out straight and fetched me between the eyes like the minister in the kirk used, and I see my error, that is, I like shall when I’m through blinkin’. Pride is a good life-buoy when a body’s drownin’ in the waters o’ trouble, but inconvenient and unseemly to wear juist for ornament on dry land.”
Miss Jule asked no questions at the time, but the truth leaked out, and Mrs. Carr herself was the first to tell the story, laughing as she did so, with the dry, harsh laugh that needed use to mellow it, and illustrating with her crutch the emphatic sound of Anne’s boots, as she walked out.
The result of this change of heart, or rather of manner, for at heart the old woman had always been good as gold, was that even when picnic days were over, and the good folks of Dogtown left the fields for the fireside, and children returned to school, Robin Hood’s Inn, remote as it was, became a meeting-place for autumn walks, and Saturday parties out to gather leaves or nuts. Moreover, few people could decide which attracted them the most, the tea and seedcakes, the courtesy of Laddie the old collie, Jill’s coaxing antics, or Mrs. Carr’s fine hospitality.
“Herb Witch you shall still be called, for no one brews tea like you,” said Mr. Hugh, one afternoon as he sat by the wide fireplace, holding one of the precious Lowestoft cups that had been filled the second time.
Mrs. Carr, for some unknown reason, never served anyone but him she termed her “landlord,” and Miss Letty from these cups.
Miss Jule, her niece, Anne, and her mother had been driving together and had likewise stopped for a chat, also to inquire for a delicate little spaniel, one of an overlarge litter, that Mrs. Carr was mothering.
“Ah, but I’ve fostered a rival at the tea drawin’,” said the old lady with a smile. “Miss Lettice here betters me at it, ’twas she that drew that very potful as your foot was on the sill.”
“Why didn’t you put a few poison ivy leaves in it? I’m quite surprised,” laughed Mr. Hugh, never thinking how the jest might hurt the young girl with whom he had been on very friendly terms since the day of the storm. But that was Mr. Hugh’s chief fault; he often sharpened his little jokes upon other people’s feelings, while Miss Letty never did. She said nothing, however, but going to the window picked up Jill, and resting her upon the sill laid her face against one of the long soft ears.
“Some day, Hugh,” said Miss Jule, rather sharply, “Letty and I will find a thin spot in your cuticle, and then we will always keep salt ready to rub in it!”
“Ah! but there’s a bonnie fortune here,” said Mrs. Carr, discerning something awry and lifting Letty’s empty cup she looked in the bottom; “but what’s this on tother side?” she muttered, “two horses travelling even, and then one ahead and riderless. I can’t read that—best wash the cup.”