"Well, I want you to let me ask her to come down here and take care of the old man, while you are getting dinner for that gang of Millses—when they swarm down from Green River. I would offer to do it myself, but I think I can help you more by talking to the Millses while you are busy about the cooking."
"Of course you can," assented Kitty Mills, eagerly. "And you mustn't let me forget to fix up a basket full of the nicest things for Uncle Watty and the children."
"Never mind about that now. Only I'll tell you that I'm not going to pack off the cooked victuals. You've got all the work you can do. But you may give me something raw. We won't bother now about the basket. The main thing is to settle this everlasting old dorminica! I never was so tired of anything in all my born days, as I am of that contrary old hen, and there's only one way to settle her. If you'll let me ask Miss Pettus to come, she will do it in a moment—just to make you ashamed of yourself," Sidney said, trying not to smile, knowing that to do so would be to start Kitty Mills laughing again.
The quarrel having been thus adjusted, Sidney went to tell Miss Judy about it, knowing how pleased she would be to hear it, even though the news seemed to describe a mere truce rather than to be a declaration of peace. The little lady was just crossing the big road, returning from a visit to Tom Watson and from a futile effort to cheer Anne. She stopped at her own gate, feeling depressed by what she had just seen and looking rather sad, and waited for Sidney to come up, welcoming her as one welcomes a strong, fresh breeze on a heavy day. They sat down in the passage, where Miss Sophia was already seated, and the two little sisters listened to all that Sidney had to tell of the quarrel, without the vaguest notion that they were hearing a truly humorous account of an utterly absurd affair. Instead, they began listening with the gravest concern, which turned gradually to the happiest relief.
Miss Judy's thoughts, however, were too full of Doris and the dancing-lesson and the events of the previous day to talk long about anything else. She accordingly told Sidney the whole story in minutest detail, as soon as she could get in a word, wondering somewhat that Sidney had not already heard it from Doris, until the circumstances were explained. With the mention of the young man the same thought stirred, silently and secretly, in both the women's breasts, naturally enough, since they were both true women. It had, indeed, stirred in Miss Judy's innocent heart while she lay dreaming with her blue eyes open in the darkness of the preceding night. But neither Miss Judy nor Sidney spoke of what they were feeling rather than thinking. Women rarely voice these subtle stirrings of the purely feminine instinct, if indeed they have any words for what they thus feel. All that Sidney said was to remark, in a matter-of-fact tone, that she must be going, as the sun was getting high, and she had several pressing engagements to keep before she would be free to fulfil her promise to help Kitty Mills entertain that gang of Millses, swarming down from Green River.
"If I can get away in time—for I'm engaged to take supper with Mrs. Alexander, as the doctor has gone 'way out on one of his long trips to the country—I'll drop in at old lady Gordon's and see what the old Hessian is about."
Miss Judy shook her little curly head at Sidney's calling any one such a hard name. She could not let such a serious matter pass without remonstrance. Yet at the same time she smiled and looked rather mysterious. She had secretly hit upon a nice little plan while talking about Doris and the young gentleman, and she could hardly wait till Sidney was out of hearing before disclosing it to Miss Sophia.
"Of course I couldn't mention it to Sidney until I knew your opinion, sister Sophia. I am sure, though, that I am only expressing your ideas—less well than you would express them yourself—when I say that it is our plain duty to do something at once, to show our high regard for Doris, something to place her in a proper social light at a single stroke. It is all important that a girl should be properly launched;" Miss Judy went on as though she had given long and deep consideration to the subject, and as if she and Miss Sophia were the all-powerful social dictators of a large and complicated circle of the highest fashion. "Just think what a difference it might have made for us, had our dear mother lived and Becky's too, poor child."
"Just so, sister Judy," responded Miss Sophia, with the greatest promptness and decision.
"I thought I could not be mistaken as to your views and wishes," said Miss Judy, truly gratified. "And you don't think, do you, that it is at all necessary for us to do anything very elaborate or—expensive?" she continued, as if it were solely a consideration of the finest taste. "To my notion a tea would be most genteel, most highly refined; but you are, of course, the one to decide. Your judgment is always more practical than mine. I should not dare rely upon my own in so important a matter. But as I look at it, a tea would serve as well or better than anything else we could do to show everybody—including old lady Gordon and her grandson, who may not, being a stranger, and seeing Sidney and Uncle Watty, understand how Doris has been brought up—the high estimation in which we hold the dear child."