"You see," Miss Gastonguay went on, "there has always been something in our two natures that clashed. I have been the worst, I acknowledge it, and now I want to know if you will forgive me, and come to see me sometimes,—not too often, for it is dangerous to see too much of people."
Mrs. Prymmer usually put her worst foot foremost. Down in her heart were hidden depths of kindness never explored by herself or by others. Something away down there now stirred tentatively. "We were girls together," she said, simply, as she took the hand of her former schoolmate.
"And now we will be old women together. Thank fortune, this scene is over. Where is your daughter-in-law?"
"Next door."
"Ah, she likes that conglomerate family."
"And the minister," said Mrs. Prymmer, dryly. "I suppose it's all right. Married women usen't to run about so much in my day."
"Fie upon you, let others criticise your daughter-in-law."
"You always had a free-hung tongue, Jane Gastonguay," said Mrs. Prymmer, with spirit.
"True, true, you've got the whip-hand of me now, Hippolyta. My niece is out in the carriage, she wants to see your daughter-in-law. We'll run in to the parsonage. Good-bye," and she bustled out of the house.
Derrice was sitting on the well-worn sofa in the parlour of the little house, awaiting the return of the various members of the family. So much at home was she that she had picked up a book and was quietly reading when Miss Gastonguay burst in upon her.