“Fan,” said Ellen cautiously, “does the minister go there much now?”
Fanny compressed her lips.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied, her eyes and fingers busy with an unruly heart, which declined to adjust itself to requirements. “What are they going to do with this silly patchwork, anyway?”
“Make an autograph quilt for the minister’s birthday; didn’t you know?”
Fanny dropped her unfinished work.
“I never heard of anything so silly!” she said sharply.
“Everybody is to write their names in pencil on these hearts,” pursued Ellen mischievously; “then they’re to be done in tracing stitch in red cotton. In the middle of the quilt is to be a big white square, with a large red heart in it; that’s supposed to be Wesley Elliot’s. It’s to have his monogram in stuffed letters, in the middle of it. Lois Daggett’s doing that now. I think it’s a lovely idea—so romantic, you know.”
Fanny did not appear to be listening; her pretty white forehead wore a frowning look.
“Ellen,” she said abruptly, “do you ever see anything of Jim nowadays?”
“Oh! so you thought you’d pay me back, did you?” cried Ellen angrily. “I never said I cared a rap for Jim Dodge; but you told me a whole lot about Wesley Elliot: don’t you remember that night we walked home from the fair, and you—”