“But I was making over your black batiste, Miss Parrott,” began Mary Pote with the privilege of an old servant.
“When I want my black batiste finished, I will tell you so, Mary Pote. Do as I bid you. Oh, one thing more. You are going so that a Mrs. Pepper—she’s the mother of some children living in a poor old brown house in Badgertown—”
“I know them,” said Mary Pote, turning back.
“Don’t interrupt me—well, their mother has gone to take care of that odious old Miss Babbitt, and you are to take her place.”
“Now I’m glad enough to go,” cried Mary Pote joyfully, “for that Mrs. Pepper of all folks is the best woman, and—”
“There, there,” said Miss Parrott, waving her off with long fingers on which ancestral rings shone. “Get along, Mary Pote, and do as I say. One thing more—tell Simmons to get the brougham ready and drive Mrs. Henderson and you down there.”
The parson’s wife got out of her chair. “Dr. Fisher brought me, and he will take me back,” she said.
Miss Parrott waved her back with the long fingers.
“I know nothing about how you got here,” she said; “it doesn’t interest me in the least. I am taking charge of the case now, and not Dr. Fisher, nor anybody else.”