The genuine sympathy and kindliness were quite touching, and Eve responded to it as only a woman can.
“Annie,” she said, with a wistful smile, “you are the kindest, dearest thing–––”
“Now don’t you call me a ‘thing,’ Eve Marsham,” the other broke in with a laugh, “or we’ll quarrel. I’m just a plain woman with sense enough to say nothing when Gay gets home with more whiskey aboard than is good for his vitals. And don’t you think I’m not putting a good value on myself when I say that. Not that Gay’s given to sousing a heap. No, he’s a good feller, sure, an’ wouldn’t swap him for––for your Will––on’y when he 104 snores. So you see it’s a kindness to me letting me stop to-night.”
“You’re a dear,” Eve cried warmly,––“and I won’t say ‘thing.’ Where are you going now?”
“Why, I’m going to set Angel’s cheese an’ pickles, and put his coffee on the stove. If he’s to home when I get around, maybe I’ll sit with him ten minutes or so, an’ then I’ll come right along back.”
She had reached the door, which stood open, and now she paused, looking back.
“When are you gettin’ married, Eve?” she demanded abruptly.
“Two months to-day,” the other replied. She was surprised out of herself, and for a moment a warm glow swept over her as she realized that there was something still in the world which made for other than unhappiness.
“Two months,” said Annie, thoughtfully. “Two months, eh?” Then she suddenly became mysterious and smiled into the other’s face. “That’ll be nice time for Gay to think about something that ain’t––a coffin.”
She hurried out on her mission of duty and affection. Gay was her all, but she had room in her heart for a good deal more than the worthy butcher-undertaker’s great, fat image. She had no children of her own yet, but, as she often said, in her cheery, optimistic way, “time enough.”