Queenie had a little errand to fulfil at the vicarage; one of her scholars was ill, and she wanted Miss Cosie's recipe for a certain compound that Miss Cosie judged to be highly efficacious in such cases.
She entered the little parlor with her usual light step. Miss Cosie was engaged in her favorite occupation—knitting socks for her brother. She put down her work with a little flurry when she caught sight of her visitor.
"There, there," exclaimed the little woman, turning very red, "Christopher was right, as he always is, dear old fellow; and of course you've come to scold me."
"To scold you, dear Miss Cosie!"
"Dear, dear, to think of my poor head getting into such a muddle, and the words slipping out before I knew they were coming. Why, I could have bitten my troublesome tongue I was so vexed with myself; but what was the use of crying over spilt milk, as my poor mother used to say, and a secret is sure to be proclaimed on the house-top some time or other, as I told Mr. Garth."
"Now, Miss Cosie, what does this mean?" asked Queenie, conscious of an uncomfortable sensation creeping over her; little Janie's sore throat was quite forgotten. "Do you mean that, after all my entreaties and warnings, you have betrayed me?"
"There, there, perhaps it is not so bad as you think," returned Miss Cosie, patting her curls nervously, and prefacing her words with a gentle cough; "it was only just a sentence or two that I let drop to Mr. Garth when he came in here last night for a pleasant chat with Christopher and me."
"Well?" somewhat sternly, for there was no denying that Queenie was a trifle angry.
"Well, we were sitting as comfortably as possible; Christopher hadn't come in, he had gone to baptize Wheeler Wilson's baby, and none too soon, for it died this morning; and I took it its little burying gown, and laid it out, the precious blossom, myself. And very touching it was, and the poor mother crying her eyes out, because it looked so pretty; and well, if she does take a drop of spirits now and then we are all miserable sinners, the very best of us, and Wheeler Wilson is none too careful; and—where was I, dearie? for I have just gone and muddled myself again, I believe."
"You said you were alone with Mr. Clayton," returned Queenie, with an inward prayer for patience. Miss Cosie's garrulity was terribly trying.