"Harriet," said the old lady, wiping her damp hands on her apron, "Hettie has gone to work washing dishes in there like a house a-fire. I declare she's a big help; as soon as she comes about I feel rested, for I know she won't leave a thing undone. What have you been saying to her? I never saw her so cheerful. She's been runnin' on in the kitchen like a fifteen-year-old child. I declare I can't keep from liking her. You must a-told her some'n about Toot Wambush."
"I did," admitted Harriet. "Mother, I've been standing in her way. I believe he likes her, and will marry her now that I have given him his last answer."
"Do you really, daughter?"
"Yes, I think he will—I'm almost sure of it, and I just had to tell her so, she looked so down-hearted."
Mrs. Floyd laid her hand on Harriet's head and smiled.
"You deserve to be happy, too, daughter, and somehow I feel like you are going to be. Mr. Westerfelt is nobody's fool; he knows you're sweet and good, and—"
"I don't want to talk about him, mother," Harriet said, firmly, as she rose. "I think we ought to keep Hettie a few days; she'd like to be near the post-office, I know."
"Well, the Lord knows I'm willing," consented Mrs. Floyd, as she followed her daughter to the kitchen.