Miss Cottle reflected, her eyes on Mr. Morrison’s heated countenance.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you’d care to take any advice from _me;_ but I know what _I’d_ do, if I’d raised all those onions.”
“I ain’t proud,” Mr. Morrison confessed handsomely. “I’d take advice f’om a Leghorn hen, ef it p’intedly hit the nail on the head. Fire away, ma’am. Ef you’ve got any good idees, it’s reelly wrong t’ keep ’em to yourself, they’re kind o’ scurse these days.”
He looked whimsically at the lady, whose earnest attention appeared to be divided pretty evenly between the shining heaps of vegetables and himself.
“I don’t believe I shall ever smell onions again without thinking of you, Peleg,” Miss Cottle observed sentimentally.
“‘’Tis sweet to be remembered,’” quoted Peg gallantly.
Miss Cottle sighed deeply; then started as if suddenly frightened by her own thoughts.
“What,” she demanded, dropping her basket, which was fortunately empty, “did I say?”
“W’y, nothin’ in pertic’lar, ma’am,” replied Peg. “You was speakin’ o’ disposin’ o’ th’ onions, an’——”
“Yes; but I called you by your Christian name. I called you—_Peleg!_ What _must_ you think of me?”
“Ev’rybody mostly calls me Peleg, er Peg. I ain’t pertic’lar es t’ that. But how ’bout them onions? You was sayin’——”
“I was about to inform you that my brother-in-law’s nephew is connected with the Washington Market in New York City,” said Miss Cottle, with a long, quivering sigh. “I had thought of writing to him, if you cared to have me. I should be _glad_ to do _something_—for you, Peleg. There! I’ve said it again.”
“It’s mighty kind of you to write t’ your relation. I’m bleeged t’ you, ma’am. Washin’ton Market, Noo York City, soun’s good t’ me. But d’ye s’pose the’s folks enough thar t’ eat all them onions?”
“The loft t’ the kerridge house is full of ’em, an’ the hay barn floor’s covered, an’ the’s a lot more in the ground, es I was sayin’.”
Miss Cottle seated herself on an upturned bushel-basket and gazed earnestly at the successful grower of onions.
“I wish to talk to you _seriously_, Mr. Morrison, on a subject _very near my heart_,” she said. “Will you not sit down on this box”—indicating a place at her side—“and listen?”
“I’d ought t’ be gittin’ them onions out th’ groun’,” protested Peg, with a wary glint in his eye. But he sat down gingerly on the edge of the box.