came out of her room, brushed past me, and flitted downstairs.
"Mr. MacPherson," I heard her say with double-distilled primness, "will you please come into the parlour? I have something to say to you."
They went in, and I returned to the south- west room.
"Peg, there's trouble brewing," I said. "I'm sure of it by Aunt Olivia's face—it was gray. And she has gone down alone—and shut the door."
"I am going to hear what she says to him," said Peggy resolutely. "It is her own fault—she has spoiled us by always insisting that we should be present at their interviews. That poor man has had to do his courting under our very eyes. Come on, Mary."
The south-west room was directly over the parlour and there was an open stovepipe-hole leading up therefrom. Peggy removed the hat box that was on it, and we both deliberately and shamelessly crouched down and listened with all our might.
It was easy enough to hear what Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was saying.
"I've come up to get the date settled, Nillie, as I told you. Come now, little woman, name the day."
