“And Dick does,” continued Iola, “and Barney.” Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck.
“Pshaw!” she cried angrily, “those boys! Of course, they like me. I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like—well—just like a boy, you know.”
“Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a chance to be anything.”
“Be anything!” cried Margaret hotly. “Why, Dick's going to be a minister and—”
“Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?”
“Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,” replied Margaret indignantly.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir.” To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the “unheard of.” “And yet,” she went on, “if he had a chance—”
But Margaret could bear this no longer. “What are you talking about? There are plenty of good men who are never heard of.”
“Oh,” cried Iola quickly, “I didn't mean—of course your father. Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney—”
“Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night.”