"We're havin' a dish o' discourse," returned Nicholas quietly.
Young Nick's Hattie was forty-five, but she looked much younger.
Extreme plumpness had insured her against wrinkles, and her light brown
hair was banded smoothly back. Hattie's originality lay in a desire for
color, and therein she overstepped the bounds of all decorum. It was
customary to see her barred across with enormous plaids, or stripes
going the broad way; and so long had she lived under such insignia that
no one would have known her without them. She came in with soft, heavy
footfalls, and sat down in the little rocking-chair at Mr. Oldfield's
right hand. She smiled at him, somewhat nervously.
"Well, father," said she, "you got home!"
Nicholas helped himself to another half cup of tea, after holding the
teapot tentatively across to Mary's mug.
"Yes," he answered, in his dry and gentle fashion, "I've got home."
Hattie began rocking, in a rapid staccato, to punctuate her speech.
"Well," she began, "I'll say my say an' done with it. There's goin' to
be a town-meetin' to-night, an' Nicholas sent me over to mention it.
'Father'll want to be on hand,' says he."
Mr. Oldfield pushed back his cup, and then his chair.
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