Then Nancy began to fly about the kitchen like sputter-ings out of the frying-pan—filling the kettle, lighting the lamp, and getting together the baby's night-clothes. Kate watched her and glanced at the clock.
“Was the town quiet when you were out for the bacon, Nancy?” she said.
“Quiet enough,” said Nancy. “Everybody flying off Le-zayre way already—except what were making for the quay.”
“Is the steamer sailing to-night, then?''
“Yes, the Peveril; but not water enough to float her till half-past seven, they were saying. Here's the lil one's nightdress, and here's her binder, bless her—just big enough for a bandage for a person's wrist if she sprained it churning.”
“Lay them on the fender to air, Nancy—I'll not undress baby yet awhile. And see—it's nearly seven.”
“I'll be pinning my shawl on and away like the wind,” said Nancy. “The bogh!” she said, with the pin between her teeth. “She's off again. Do you really think, now, the angels in heaven are as sweet and innocent, Kirry? I don't. They can't if they're grown up. And having to climb Jacob's ladder, poor things, they must be. Then, if they're men—but that's ridiculous, anyway.”
“The clock is striking, Nancy. No use going when everything's over,” said Kate, and the foot with which she rocked the child went faster now that the little one was asleep.
“Sakes alive! Let me tie the strings of my bonnet, woman. Pity you can't come yourself, Kitty. But if they're worth their salt they'll be whipping round this way and giving you a lil tune, anyway.”
“Have you got the key, Nancy?”