And they still heard Mrs. Winnie singing as though she were singing at a harvest-home.
In a little while they went back together into the parlor hand in hand. Chris Jennifer’s wife was standing with her back to them, posing herself before a little old mirror with a bright piece of stuff—pink roses upon a green ground—folded about her bosom. She turned with a start, and whisked the thing away as though shy of a piece of matronly vanity.
“Why, Mrs. Winnie, you have picked out the very thing!”
“Me, sir? I was only trying how my little lady would look in it gathered up over the breast—just so, Mr. John.”
“But I bought that piece of stuff for you, Mrs. Winnie.”
“Now, come, my dear good gentleman—me with pink roses!”
“Well, I should praise you in it.”
“Pink roses and a face like a side of bacon! Dear soul, but it be too young for me.”
Barbara went to her suddenly, and, taking the stuff, unfolded it, and held it to Mrs. Jennifer’s figure. And in truth she looked comely with the sweet colors of it, turning her coy, brusque face this way and that with self-conscious pride.
“You look like a bride, Mrs. Jennifer.”