"Ye ha'n't got to go out, have ye?" said Mrs. Ducklow. "I shouldn't think you'd put on yer boots jest to step to the barn and see to the hoss."
"I'm goin' over to Reuben's."
"To Reuben's! Not to-night, father!"
"Yes, I think I better. He and Sophrony'll know we heard of his gittin' home, and they're enough inclined a'ready to feel we neglect 'em. Haven't ye got somethin' ye can send?"
"I don't know,"—curtly. "I've scurce ever been over to Sophrony's, but I've carried her a pie or cake or something; and mighty little thanks I got for it, as it turns out!"
"Why didn't ye say that to Miss Beswick, when she was runnin' us so hard about our never doin' anything for 'em?"
"'T wouldn't have done no good; I knew jest what she'd say. 'What's a pie or a cake now and then?'—that's jest the reply she'd have made.—Dear me! what have I been doing?"
Mrs. Ducklow, rising, had but just discovered that she had stitched the patch and the trousers to her apron.
"So much for Miss Beswick!" she exclaimed, untying the apron-strings, and flinging the united garments spitefully down upon a chair. "I do wish such folks would mind their own business and stay to home!"
"You've got the bonds safe?" said Mr. Ducklow, putting on his waistcoat.