"To Franky's grave. It isn't the place to make her a lively
companion when she comes back again; and it isn't very cheerful for me to
have to sit at home and think of her there."
"'Tis mother-like, Miss Bessie." Franky's grave held attraction for Emily
also, who visited it every Sunday of her life.
"Yes, but, Emily, oughtn't mama to think of me as well as of Franky? And
I've no patience with her. I think she ought to make up her mind, and have
done with it. Quite young girls, with all their lives before them, make
marriages for money, why should she make such a fuss?"
"The young ones don't know what they're a-doing, perhaps; and your ma
does," the sage Emily hazarded.
"And if the old man comes to-day what do you suppose I'm to say to him?"
"There never was a time yet when you didn't know what to say, Miss
Bessie."
"It's all very well. Why should I be mixed up in it? I shall just say
nothing."
"Then he can sit and look at you, and that's what he likes."
Bessie's eyes glinted: "But if he likes it--and he has always acted as if
he did--then why? why? why--?" She spread out the palms of her plump,
white little hands, making the dramatic inquiry of Emily, who, with a
black rag dipped in whitening, was polishing the "brights," as she called
her tin and pewter ware.
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