“I’d say, ‘What do you want for dinner?’ ” said Hettie, demure. But even this was too much for Amos.
“An’ then we’d cook it,” he says, almost reverent. “Oh, Hettie—don’t it seem like heaven to think of us seein’ to all them little things—together?”
I loved Hettie for her answer. Coquetting is all right some of the time; but—some of the time—so is real true talk.
“Yes,” she says soft, “it does. But it seems like earth too—an’ I’m glad of it.”
“Oh, Hettie,” says Amos, “marry me. Don’t let’s go on like this.”
“Dear,” says Hettie, all solemn,—and forgetting that “dear” was such a wicked word,—“dear, I’d marry you this afternoon if it wasn’t for Aunt Hettie’s feelin’s. But I can’t hurt her—I can’t,” she says.
Well, just then the door bell rung, and Hettie she flew to answer it, and Amos he lit back to the woodshed and went to chopping more ice like life lay all that way. And I was just coming out of the butt’ry with a pan of thin sandwiches ready for the black ribbins, when I heard a kind of groan and a scuffle, and down-stairs come Mis’ Fire Chief Merriman, and all but fell into the kitchen. She had something in her hand.
“Calliope—Calliope Marsh,” says she, all wailing like a bereavement, “Cousin Maria has fell an broke her wrist, an’ she ain’t comin’ at all!”
I stood still, real staggered. I see what it meant to Mis’ Merriman—invites all out, Cousin Maria for surprise and hostess in one, Mis’ Merriman not figgering on appearing at all, account of the Chief, and the company right that minute on the way.
“What’ll I do—what’ll I do?” cries Mis’ Merriman, sinking down on the bottom step in her best black with the crêpe cuffs. “Oh,” she says, “it’s a judgment upon me. I’ll hev to turn my guests from my door. I’ll be the laughing-stock,” says she, wild.