“Well, I started when them babies was tiny and the washin’ was small; an’ they both growed so gradual I didn’t notice—much. An’ ma don‘t make me hurry none.”
“How many children are there?”
“Nine. Last’s just come. Pa says he didn’t look on him as no blessin’, but ma says the Lord must provide—an’ if it’s babies, then it’s babies.” She stopped and clasped her hands after the fashion of an ancient grandmother tottering in the nineties: “Land o’ goodness, I do think an empty cradle’s an awful dismal thing to have round. Don’t you?”
Patsy agreed, and a moment later unloaded the twins and the washing for the child at her doorstep.
Soon after this she caught her first glimpse of the town she was making. “If luck will only turn stage-manager,” she thought, “and put Billy Burgeman in the center of the scene—handy, why, I’ll promise not to murder my lines or play under.”
It was not luck, however, but chance, still pulling the wires; and accordingly he managed Patsy’s entrance as he wished.
The town had one main street, like Lebanon, and in front of the post-office in a two-seated car sat a familiar figure. There was the Balmacaan coat and the round plush hat; and to Patsy, impulsive and heart-strong, it sufficed. She ran nearly the length of the street in her eagerness to reach him.