“How you do talk! Wall, I’ve seen folks that it sarved jest so; but you’ll get over it. Now there was Nancy Scovandyke—did John ever say anything about her? Wall, she couldn’t bear snuff till after her disappointment—John told you, I suppose?”
“No, madam, my husband has never told me anything concerning his eastern friends, neither do I wish to hear anything of them,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, her patience on the point of giving out.
“Never told you nothin’ about Nancy Scovandyke! If that don’t beat all! Why, he was——”
She was prevented from finishing the sentence, which would undoubtedly have raised a domestic breeze, when Anna came to tell her that the trunks were carried to her room.
“I’ll come right up then,” said she, adding, more to herself than any one else, “If I ain’t mistaken, I’ve got a little paper of saffron somewhere, which I mean to steep for ’Tilda. Her skin looks desput jandissy!”
When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife’s room, he found her in a collapsed state of anger and mortification.
“John Nichols,” said she, with a strong emphasis on the first word, which sounded very much like Jarn, “do you mean to kill me by bringing that vulgar, ignorant thing here, walking into my room without knocking—calling me ’Tilda, and prating about Nancy somebody——”
John started. His wife knew nothing of his affaire du cœur with Miss Nancy, and for his own peace of mind ’twas desirable that she should not. Mentally resolving to give her a few hints, he endeavored to conciliate his wife, by saying that he knew “his mother was troublesome, but she must try not to notice her oddities.”
“I wonder how I can help it, when she forces herself upon me continually,” returned his wife. “I must either deep the doors locked, or live in constant terror.”
“It’s bad, I know,” said he, smoothing her glossy hair, “but then, she’s old, you know. Have you seen ’Lena?”