The two girls were talking as they sat in the lamplight one evening. Dinner was over and Miss Emily was at work upon her embroidery, a chaste piece of design in which a parrot with bead eyes perched stolidly upon a bouquet of yellow roses. Mrs. Johnson, who had a cold, lay upon the sofa, her head enveloped in a woollen shawl; the local newspaper was in her hand, and from it she occasionally read extracts, not so much for the sake of informing her companions as because she liked to make her comments aloud.
“It is really a pity that you will miss the quadrille party next week,” said Emily, looking up from her parrot; “what poor Mr. Pottinger will do I cannot think. I am sure he will be vastly annoyed. He will write no more poetry when you are gone.”
“Yes, and I did so want to wear my green-and-white muslin too.”
“Green and white, forsaken quite,” quoted Emily. “Only it will be Mr. Pottinger who is forsaken, not you.”
“La! Emily, do not be so absurd. There are plenty of other young ladies coming for Christmas who can console him.”
“Ah, but there is no one like you, Isoline,” said the admiring Emily. She was plain herself.
“What nonsense,” rejoined her companion, well satisfied.
“Emily, my love,” broke in Mrs. Johnson, “it is really impossible to see so far from the light. Pray come and take the paper and read aloud a little, as you are near the lamp.”
Emily put her embroidery away with a sigh. She preferred infinitely to gossip with Isoline.
“What shall I read, ma’am?” she inquired, as she sat down again with the journal in her hand.