“How did you manage without assistance? Did you call Ann to help you?”
“I could not, for Ann was in the midst of one of her most thrilling stories, which she was recounting to the baker, and I knew that genius does not like to be interrupted. But I was as adroit as I could be, and my customers were patient; so we managed fairly. And I have such news for you—James Peters is engaged.”
“Really? Well, he’s a nice boy, and deserves a good wife. Who is it that he has chosen?”
“Guess!”
“Nancy Jones? Emma Swift? Louisa Mellars? No? I give it up.”
“I think it is very ungallant of you not to guess me. Why should it not be me? I am tall enough and young enough and all the rest enough for him, I hope.”
“He knows better than to choose you, Madge. Tell me, now—Jennie Swain? Well, I never!”
“But so it is; Jennie has the prize, and a dozen of us have nothing but the power and privilege of tearing our hair if we please.”
“You respect your hair, Madge, far too highly to tear it.”
So they talked on, while a great burden of fear was on Margaret’s heart, and it seemed to Harris that the shadowy man with the scythe stood behind his chair.