“Did you know,” pursued Miss Alling, when the girl had gone, “that Perry is an inch taller than his brother? His arms are longer, too. They were exactly the same size until this summer.”
Mrs. Wayt eyed her sister with a helpless, distraught air, while the scissors flashed and slipped through the muslin, and the worker appeared to have no interest in life beyond the manipulation of both.
“Dear,” she said timidly at length, without noticing the other’s query. “I never blame you for any action, however singular it may seem to me. I know you always have some excellent reason for what you do or say. But the Gilchrists are our best neighbors, and are leading people in the church. It would be unwise to offend them. Do you object to telling me why you would not see Mr. March Gilchrist?”
Hetty shifted the pattern to a corner of the stuff, turned it upside down and regarded it solemnly, her head on one side. Then she pinned it fast and fell again to cutting.
“I do object—decidedly!” she said composedly. “But it is perhaps best that you should know the truth. It may prevent unpleasant complications. Mr. Gilchrist did me the honor last evening to offer to marry me, and I refused him.”
“Hetty Alling!”
“That is likely to remain my name. I supposed that you would be surprised. I was!” as coolly as before. “I trust to your honor to keep Mr. Gilchrist’s secret, even from Mr. Wayt. It is not a matter that concerns anybody but ourselves. And we will not allude to it again.”
Struck by something unnatural in the girl’s perfect composure, the tender-hearted matron leaned forward to stroke the head bowed over the work.
“There is something behind all this, Hetty, dear. I am sure of it. It would make me very happy to see you married to such a man as March Gilchrist. What objection can you have to him as a suitor?”
“The very question which he asked and I answered. Excuse me for reminding you that nobody else has the right to press it.”