“Why, mother! you’ve put that flowered silk dress on her that father brought you from Philadelphia when he went over the mountains with a drove of horses! You said you was goin’ to save that for the oldest son’s wife.”
The guests near Sarah looked significantly at each other, and Miss Miller, being among them, tossed her head and tittered.
“Anybody who was anxious to marry into your family,” she remarked to Sarah, “ought to fall sick and send for your mother, and give her all the trouble in the world. That’s the surest way to get her consent.”
Miss Miller pursed her lips. She wanted to correct any impression that she had favored Mart Macauley, and at the same time utter a few strictures.
“Yes, mother’s a good nurse,” said Sarah innocently.
“She’ll nurse you,” whispered Darius, with a warning nudge, “when she hears what you said about that flowered silk.”
“Don’t tell her,” begged his sister. “I’ll do your share of the milkin’ all the rest of the week, if you won’t.”
“Well,” assented Darius provisionally, “mebby I won’t.”
The flowered silk had been constructed for Mrs. Macauley when she was much less matronly in shape than on this Christmas night, and by reason of being put away so long had got into fashion again. It was so rich and thick that it was famed through the neighborhood as being able to stand by itself, but, having retired to lavender and camphor, was not expected forth any more until the occasion of Mart Macauley’s infair dinner.
Priscilla never looked so pretty as she did on this Christmas night. She took no part in the plays, but they sold pawns over her head, and the penalties she inflicted were considered brilliant.