"Very,—quite pastoral," sniffed I.
We were sitting round the open door an hour after, listening to a whippoorwill, and watching the slow moon rise over a hilly range just east of Centreville, when that elvish little "week! week!" piped out of the wood that lay behind the house.
"That is hopeful," said Kate; "I think Melindy and George must have tracked the turkeys to their haunt, and scared them homeward."
"George—who?" said Peggy.
"George Bemont; it seems he is—what is your Connecticut phrase?—sparkin' Melindy."
"I'm very glad; he is a clever fellow," said Peter.
"And she is such a very pretty girl," continued Peggy,—"so intelligent and graceful; don't you think so, Sam?"
"Aw, yes, well enough for a rustic," said I, languidly. "I never could endure red hair, though!"
Kate stopped on the door-sill; she had risen to go up stairs.
"Gobble! gobble! gobble!" mocked she. I had heard that once before! Peter and Peggy roared;—they knew it all;—I was sold!