“And the poor little colt,” said Miss Sally, making that infant’s discomfort her own,—“I don’t want my colt kicked to death among a lot of wild shod heels.”
“He go with his mammy. No ha’um evah happen to you’ colts on this place, Miss Sally.”
“You see to it that none happens to it this time! All the family at home?” she stopped to inquire, with her riding-skirt gathered in her hand.
“Ya-as, m’m.”
“Has my trunk been carried up? I sent it this morning.”
“Ya-as, m’m.”
“Who’s here?” demanded Miss Vandewater, stiffening her figure.
Peachy followed her eye to the stable-yard, where stood a vehicle she never beheld with calmness. It was the handsome and shining carriage of Judge Poynton, from the county seat.
Peachy grinned. “Miss Judge come out this mawnin’ to spend the day.”
So sore does one’s pride become when chafed by poverty, that Miss Sally hated that plump and opulent woman for naught but being plump and opulent; though she would have given as her reason the airs of a woman married above her wildest expectations.