And there presently broke in the rustle of a stiff black silk gown advancing toward her, and in the gloom she saw the tall and haughty figure of the rich Miss Parrott.
How she told her story, she never could remember, but it was all out at last. And Miss Parrott sat erect, without uttering a word until the parson’s wife thought as she told her husband that night, “I should go through the floor.”
At last Miss Parrott broke the silence. “It’s those little brown house people you want to help?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Henderson, unable to get out another word.
“And you want me to let Mary Pote go to take care of Miss Babbitt?”
“Yes,” said the parson’s wife faintly, “at least till they can get Miss Babbitt’s niece to come.”
“Um—” There wasn’t another sound in the room except the wild beating of Mrs. Henderson’s heart, until Miss Parrott got her long figure out of the high-backed chair, and the stiff black silk gown rustled over to the bell-cord.
“Send Mary Pote to me,” said Miss Parrott to the stiff old butler who appeared.
And again there was silence in the long gloomy drawing-room. Mrs. Henderson couldn’t tell, for the life of her, whether or no she had harmed her husband’s interests, perhaps driven him from Badgertown parish. At last in came Mary Pote, a round, roly-poly person, half seamstress—half dressmaker, solely devoted to the spinster’s interests, who lived in a small cottage on the Parrott estate. Who ever thought of asking for Mary Pote’s services!
“Mary Pote,” said Miss Parrott, “you may get your bonnet, and pack your bag. You are to go to take care of some tiresome old person who had nothing better to do than to fall down the cellar stairs and break her hip.”