“Peggy is right,” said the old gentleman, who was superintending the burning out of the kitchen flue. “She won't find another man like Larry O'Rourke in a hurry.”
“Thrue for ye, Mr. Bilkins,” answered Margaret. “Maybe there's as good fish in the say as iver was caught, but I don't be-lave it, all the same.”
As good fish in the sea! The words recalled to Margaret the nature of her loss, and she went on with her work in silence.
“What—what is it, Ezra?” cried Mrs. Bilkins, changing color, and rising hastily from the breakfast table. Her first thought was of apoplexy.
There sat Mr. Bilkins, with his wig pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes fixed vacantly on The Weekly Chronicle, which he held out at arm's length before him.
“Good heavens, Ezra! what is the matter?”
Mr. Bilkins turned his eyes upon her mechanically, as if he were a great wax-doll, and somebody had pulled his wire.
“Can't you speak, Ezra?”
His lips opened, and moved inarticulately; then he pointed a rigid finger, in the manner of a guide-board, at a paragraph in the paper, which he held up for Mrs. Bilkins to read over his shoulder. When she had read it she sunk back into her chair without a word, and the two sat contemplating each other as if they had never met before in this world, and were not overpleased at meeting.