With one of her familiar nods, Miss Jo strode out, and nearly ran against a young lady, who was opening the gate.
"Is it you, Miss Jo? You nearly knocked me down! You must have been up with the birds this morning, to get here so soon."
The speaker was a young lady who had been at Mrs. McGregor's the previous night; a small, wiry damsel, with sallow face, thin lips, dull, yellow, lusterless hair, and light, faded-looking eyes. She was not pretty, but she looked pleasant—that is, if incessant smiles can make a face pleasant—and she had the softest and sweetest of voices—you could liken it to nothing but the purring of a cat; and her hands were limp and velvety, and catlike too.
Miss Jo nodded her recognition.
"How d'ye do, Catty? How do you feel after last night?"
"Very well."
"Well enough to spend this evening with me?"
Miss Catty Clowrie laughed.
"I am always well enough for that, Miss Jo! Are you going to eclipse Mrs. McGregor?"
"Nonsense! Mrs. Marsh and Miss Rose are coming to take tea with me, that's all, and I want you to come up."