“Is as busy as usual, Hester tells me. She goes out very little, I believe. The young people hereabouts call her a recluse.”
The unconscious judge came to the relief of all parties.
“Mr. Wayt’s congregation continues large,” he remarked. “He preached a truly remarkable sermon last Sunday. At this rate we will have to pull down our church and build a larger by next year.”
The wife looked gratified. It was much to have her husband speak of “our church.”
May was content to wait for the morrow’s meeting with her pet. Hester was wild with impatience to be again with her worshiped friend. Hetty might remonstrate, and her mother entreat her not to intrude upon the family on the evening of the travelers’ arrival. The spoiled child was unmanageable. She could not sleep a wink, she protested, until she had kissed Miss May, and exchanged reports of the weeks separating them from the dear everyday intercourse. She would take with her the portfolio she had almost worked herself ill to fill with what May must think showed diligent endeavor to improve.
“Then, there is the great news to tell!”
“Wouldn’t it be well to wait a while before speaking of that?” dissuaded the mother.
“It is a week old, already!” Hester pouted, “and I said never a word to Mrs. Gilchrist yesterday. ‘The Seasons’”—the mot de famille at the Gilchrists’ for brother and sister—“are our only own friends, mamma. You can trust them to hold their tongues!”
“What seems a great event to us will be small to them,” cautioned Mrs. Wayt—then gave Hester her way.
Nine o’clock saw her in Homer’s charge on the orchard road, the shortest, as it was the most secluded, to the Gilchrist place.