"Who's that young gal, Barby?" inquired Mrs. Elster.
"That's Mis' Plumfield's niece, mother."
"She's a handsome little creetur, aint she?"
They all laughed at that, and Fleda's cheeks growing crimson, Mrs. Plumfield stepped forward to ask after the old lady's health; and while she talked and listened, Fleda's eyes noted the spotless condition of the room the white table, the nice rag-carpet, the bright many-coloured patchwork counterpane on the bed, the brilliant cleanliness of the floor, where the small carpet left the boards bare, the tidy look of the two women; and she made up her mind that she could get along with Miss Barbara very well. Barby was rather tall, and in face decidedly a fine-looking woman, though her figure had the usual scantling proportions which nature or fashion assigns to the hard-working dwellers in the country. A handsome, quick, gray eye, and the mouth, were sufficiently expressive of character, and perhaps of temper, but there were no lines of anything sinister or surly; you could imagine a flash, but not a cloud.
"Barby, you are not tied at home any longer, are you?" said. Mrs. Plumfield, coming back from the old lady and speaking rather low; "now that Hetty is here, can't your mother spare you?"
"Well, I reckon she could, Mis' Plumfield, if I could work it so that she'd be more comfortable by my being away."
"Then you'd have no objection to go out again?"
"Where to?"
"Fleda's uncle, you know, has taken my brother's old place, and they have no help. They want somebody to take the whole management just you, Barby. Mrs. Rossitur isn't strong."
"Nor don't want to be, does she? I've heerd tell of her, Mis' Plumfield I should despise to have as many legs and arms as other folks, and not be able to help myself!"