Another
big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is
Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are
favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed
men, Brother Lawrence!'--but it don't."
She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on
the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's
remarks. "I liked her," she wrote. "She's a nice woman--even if she is
rich."
There was a knock at her door. "Lady to see you, Miss."
"I cannot see anyone," said Diantha; "you must excuse me."
"Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--." The landlady
stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely,
"It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!"
Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. "I'll be right down,"
she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, "I beg your pardon, Miss
Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?"
She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held
Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. "I was a schoolmate of
Ellen Porne," she told the girl. "We are dear friends still; and so I
feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful
work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you."
"Won't you sit down?" said Diantha.
"You, too," said Mrs.
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