"Well, all right," she said. "I s'pose likely you didn't call on her, if
you say so, Kenelm. I suppose I am a foolish, lone woman. But, O Kenelm,
I do think such a sight of you. And you know you've got money and that
Abbie Larkin is so worldly she'd marry you for it in a minute. I didn't
know but you might have met her."

"Met her! Tut--tut--tut! If that ain't--and in a typhoon like last
night! Oh, sartin, I met her! I was up here on top of Meetin'-house
Hill, larnin' her to swim in the mud puddles. You do talk so silly
sometimes, Hannah."

"Maybe I do," with a sniff. "Maybe I do, Kenelm, but you mean so much to
me. I just can't let you go."

"Go! I ain't goin' nowheres, am I? What kind of talk's that?"

"And to think you'd heave away that umbrella--the umbrella I gave you!
That's what makes me feel so bad. A nice, new, gilt-plated umbrella--"

"I never hove it away. I--I--well, I left it somewheres, I--I cal'late.
I'll go look for it after breakfast. Say, when are we goin' to have
breakfast, anyhow? It's almost eight o'clock now. Ain't them women-folks
EVER goin' to turn out?"

Thankful had heard enough. She was out of bed the next instant.

"Emily! Emily!" she cried. "It's late. We must get up now."

The voices in the sitting-room died to whispers.