she might have been handsomer at twenty, as is often the case with women.
She wore a not unbecoming cap; frequent headaches had thinned her locks
somewhat of late years. Features a little too sharp, a keen, gray eye, a
quick and restless glance, which rather avoided being met, gave the
impression that she was a wide-awake, cautious, suspicious, and, very
possibly, crafty person.

"I could n't help comin'," said Nurse Byloe, "we do so love our
babies,--how can we help it, Miss Badlam?"

The spinster colored up at the nurse's odd way of using the possessive
pronoun, and dropped her eyes, as was natural on hearing such a speech.

"I never tended children as you have, Nuss," she said. "But I 've known
Myrtle Hazard ever since she was three years old, and to think she should
have come to such an end,--'The heart is deceitful above all things and
desperately wicked,'"--and she wept.

"Why, Cynthy Badlam, what do y' mean?" said Nurse Byloe. "Y' don't think
anything dreadful has come o' that child's wild nater, do ye?"

"Child!" said Cynthia Badlam,--"child enough to wear this very gown I
have got on and not find it too big for her neither." [It would have
pinched Myrtle here and there pretty shrewdly.]

The two women looked each other in the eyes with subtle interchange of
intelligence, such as belongs to their sex in virtue of its specialty.
Talk without words is half their conversation, just as it is all the
conversation of the lower animals. Only the dull senses of men are dead
to it as to the music of the spheres.