"I left her at work," was the answer. "Jane does not get through her sewing as quickly as she might, and I have been telling her of it."
"You can't put old heads upon young shoulders," cried Mrs. Bent. "Girls like to be idle; and that's the truth. What do you suppose I caught that Molly of mine at, last night? Stuck down at the kitchen table, writing a love-letter."
Miss Hallet had her eyes bent on her eggs, as though she were counting them.
"Writing a letter, if you'll believe me! And, a fine thing of a letter it was! Smudged with ink and the writing like nothing on earth but spiders' legs in a fit. I ordered it put on the fire. She's not going to waste her time in scribbling to sweethearts while she stays with me."
"Did she rebel?" quickly asked Miss Hallet.
"Rebel! Molly! I should like to see her attempt it. She was just as sheepish as a calf at being found out, and sent the paper into the fire quicker than I could order it in."
Gossip about Mrs. Bent's Molly, or any other Molly, was never satisfactory to Miss Hallet. She broke the subject by inquiring after John Bent's health, preparatory to pursuing her way.
"Oh, he's well enough," was Mrs. Bent's answer. "It's not often men get anything the matter with them. If they were possessed of as much common sense as they are of health, I'd say it was a blessing. That weak-souled husband of mine, seeing Molly piping and sniffing last night, told me privately that he saw no harm in love-letters. He'd see no harm in a score of donkeys prancing over his young plants and other garden stuff next, leave him alone."
"I am glad Mr. Bent is well," said Miss Hallet, taking a step onwards. "Jane told me last week he was ill."
"He had a bilious attack. Jane came in the same night and saw him with his head on a cushion. By the way--look here, Miss Hallet--talking about Jane--I'd not let her be out quite so much after dark, if I were you."