“Oh, dear!” she said, “I wish people wouldn’t keep coming and interrupting us. Who’ll be next, I wonder?”
She was not left to wonder long. Almost as she spoke there was another knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Katy, rather wearily. The door opened.
“Shall I?” said a voice. There was a rustle of skirts, a clatter of boot-heels, and Imogen Clark swept into the room. Katy could not think who it was, at first. She had not seen Imogen for almost two years.
“I found the front door open,” explained Imogen, in her high-pitched voice, “and as nobody seemed to hear when I rang the bell, I ventured to come right up stairs. I hope I’m not interrupting anything private?”
“Not at all,” said Katy, politely. “Elsie, dear, move up that low chair, please. Do sit down, Imogen! I’m sorry nobody answered your ring, but the servants are cleaning house to-day, and I suppose they didn’t hear.”
So Imogen sat down and began to rattle on in her usual manner, while Elsie, from behind Katy’s chair, took a wide-awake survey of her dress. It was of cheap material, but very gorgeously made and trimmed, with flounces and puffs, and Imogen wore a jet necklace and long black ear-rings, which jingled and clicked when she waved her head about. She still had the little round curls stuck on to her cheeks, and Elsie wondered anew what kept them in their places.
By and by the object of Imogen’s visit came out. She had called to say good-by. The Clark family were all going back to Jacksonville to live.
“Did you ever see the Brigand again?” asked Clover, who had never forgotten that eventful tale told in the parlor.
“Yes,” replied Imogen, “several times. And I get letters from him quite often. He writes beau tiful letters. I wish I had one with me, so that I could read you a little bit. You would enjoy it, I know. Let me see – perhaps I have.” And she put her hand into her pocket. Sure enough there was a letter. Clover couldn’t help suspecting that Imogen knew it all the time.
The Brigand seemed to write a bold, black hand, and his note-paper and envelope was just like anybody else’s. But perhaps his band had surprised a pedlar with a box of stationery.
“Let me see,” said Imogen, running her eye down the page. “‘Adored Imogen’ – that wouldn’t interest you – hm, hm, hm – ah, here’s something! ‘I took dinner at the Rock House at Christmas. It was lonesome without you. I had roast turkey, roast goose, roast beef, mince pie, plum pudding, and nuts and raisins. A pretty good dinner, was it not? But nothing tastes first-rate when friends are away.’”
Katy and Clover stared, as well they might. Such language from a Brigand!
“‘John Billings has bought a new horse,’” continued Imogen; “hm, hm, hm – hm. I don’t think there is anything else you’d care about. Oh, yes! just here, at the end, is some poetry:
“‘Come, little dove, with azure wing,
And brood upon my breast.’
“That’s sweet, ain’t it?”
“Hasn’t he reformed?” said Clover; “he writes as if he had.”
“Reformed!” cried Imogen, with a toss of the jingling ear-rings. “He was always just as good as he could be!”
There was nothing to be said in reply to this. Katy felt her lips twitch, and for fear she should be rude, and laugh out, she began to talk as fast as she could about something else. All the time she found herself taking measure of Imogen, and thinking – “Did I ever really like her? How queer! Oh, what a wise man Papa is!”
Imogen stayed half an hour. Then she took her leave.
“She never asked how you were!” cried Elsie, indignantly; “I noticed, and she didn’t – not once.”
“Oh, well – I suppose she forgot. We were talking about her, not about me,” replied Katy.
The little group settled down again to their work. This time half an hour went by without any more interruptions. Then the door-bell rang, and Bridget, with a disturbed face, came up stairs.
“Miss Katy,” she said, “it’s old Mrs. Worrett, and I reckon she’s come to spend the day, for she’s brought her bag. What ever shall I tell her?”
Katy looked dismayed. “Oh, dear!” she said, “how unlucky. What can we do?”
Mrs. Worrett was an old friend of Aunt Izzie’s who lived in the country, about six miles from Burnet, and was in the habit of coming to Dr. Carr’s for lunch, on days when shopping or other business brought her into town. This did not occur often; and, as it happened, Katy had never had to entertain her before.
“Tell her ye’re busy, and can’t see her,” suggested Bridget; “there’s no dinner nor nothing, you know.”
The Katy of two years ago would probably have jumped at this idea. But the Katy of to-day was more considerate.
“N-o,” she said; “I don’t like to do that. We must just make the best of it, Bridget. Run down, Clover, dear, that’s a good girl! and tell Mrs. Worrett that the dining-room is all in confusion, but that we’re going to have lunch here, and, after she’s rested, I should be glad to have her come up. And, oh, Clovy! give her a fan the first thing. She’ll be so hot. Bridget, you can bring up the luncheon just the same, only take out some canned peaches, by way of dessert, and make Mrs. Worrett a cup of tea. She drinks tea always, I believe.
“I can’t bear to send the poor old lady away when she has come so far,” she explained to Elsie, after the others were gone. “Pull the rocking-chair a little this way, Elsie. And oh! push all those little chairs back against the wall. Mrs. Worrett broke down in one the last time she was here – don’t you recollect?”
It took some time to cool Mrs. Worrett off, so nearly twenty minutes passed before a heavy, creaking step on the stairs announced that the guest was on her way up. Elsie began to giggle. Mrs. Worrett always made her giggle. Katy had just time to give her a warning glance before the door opened.
Mrs. Worrett was the most enormously fat person ever seen. Nobody dared to guess how much she weighed, but she looked as if it might be a thousand pounds. Her face was extremely red. In the coldest weather she appeared hot, and on a mild day she seemed absolutely ready to melt. Her bonnet-strings were flying loose as she came in, and she fanned herself all the way across the room, which shook as she walked.
“Well, my dear,” she said, as she plumped herself into the rocking-chair, “and how do you do?”
“Very well, thank you,” replied Katy, thinking that she never saw Mrs. Worrett look half so fat before, and wondering how she was to entertain her.
“And how’s your Pa?” inquired Mrs. Worrett. Katy answered politely and then asked after Mrs. Worrett’s own health.
“Well, I’m so’s to be round,” was the reply, which had the effect of sending Elsie into a fit of convulsive laughter behind Katy’s chair.
“I had business at the bank,” continued the visitor; “and I thought while I was about it, I’d step up to Miss Petingill’s and see if I couldn’t get her to come and let out my black silk. It was made quite a piece back, and I seem to have fleshed up since then, for I can’t make the hooks and eyes meet at all. But when I got there, she was out, so I’d my walk for nothing. Do you know where she’s sewing now?”
“No,” said Katy, feeling her chair shake, and keeping her own countenance with difficulty, “she was here for three days last week to make Johnnie a school-dress. But I haven’t heard anything about her since. Elsie, don’t you want to run down stairs and ask Bridget to bring a – a – a glass of iced water for Mrs. Worrett? She looks warm after her walk.”
Elsie, dreadfully ashamed, made a bolt from the room, and hid herself