"Dunster," said Betsey to herself, soberly committing the new name to
her sound memory. "Yes, I mustn't forget to speak of him to the
doctor, as he directed. I do' know now as Peggy would vally herself
quite so much accordin' to, if she had her eyes fixed same as other
folks. I expect there wouldn't been a smarter woman in town, though,
if she'd had a proper chance. Now I've done what I set to do for her,
I do believe, an' 'twa'n't glasses, neither. I'll git her a pritty
little shawl with that money I laid aside. Peggy Bond ain't got a
pritty shawl. I always wanted to have a real good time, an' now I'm
havin' it."
VIII.
Two or three days later, two pathetic figures might have been seen
crossing the slopes of the poor-farm field, toward the low shores of
Byfield pond. It was early in the morning, and the stubble of the
lately mown grass was wet with rain and hindering to old feet. Peggy
Bond was more blundering and liable to stray in the wrong direction
than usual; it was one of the days when she could hardly see at all.
Aunt Lavina Dow was unusually clumsy of movement, and stiff in the
joints; she had not been so far from the house for three years. The
morning breeze filled the gathers of her wide gingham skirt, and
aggravated the size of her unwieldy figure. She supported herself with
a stick, and trusted beside to the fragile support of Peggy's arm.
They were talking together in whispers.
"Oh, my sakes!" exclaimed Peggy, moving her small head from side to
side.
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