"If I was half as mean as the rest of you I'd go to some old-clothes man, and try to sell myself," said Amy, the mild.
"You wouldn't get much," said Trix, not realizing her retort was rather against herself.
"I think I don't care about a post-office," remarked Margery, with quivering lips. "I think I'll not be in it, and if you want one you can have it some other place than my orchard."
"I don't want one," said Trix.
"It's a stupid thing anyhow," said Amy.
"No one with any sense would ever have proposed it," said Jack.
"Then we'll give it all up," said Margery, in a low voice. A quarrel was not a little thing to her, as it was to the others, but an awful tragedy. And at this terrible moment Miss Isabel came down the orchard, looking as fresh and calm as if there were no such thing as anger in all the world. It did not require her keen eyes to see the flushed faces and trembling lips, and feel the electricity in the air, but she discreetly pretended to observe nothing.
"Good-morrow, brave Sir Hotspur, noble Lady Catharine Seyton, kind Mrs. Plenty, fair Lady Griselda," she said.
"Good-afternoon, Miss Isabel," responded four melancholy voices, from which joy seemed forever fled.
"I see the postmark came. I was uneasy lest it fail to arrive, and came over to ask about it," continued Miss Isabel cheerfully. "Is it good? Oh, yes; those are very clear impressions you made. Do you know, I like the name Blissylvania much better than I thought I should?"