Something softened her. She spoke in a different tone; asked
Ellen if her tea was good; took care she had plenty of the
bread and butter, and excellent cheese, which was on the
table; and, lastly cut her a large piece of the pumpkin-pie.
Mr. Van Brunt, too, looked once or twice at Ellen's face, as
if he thought all was not right there. He was not so sharp as
Miss Fortune, but the swollen eyes and tear-stains were not
quite lost upon him.
After tea, when Mr. Van Brunt was gone, and the tea things
cleared away, Ellen had the pleasure of finding out the
mystery of the brass kettle and the white maple bark. The
kettle now stood in the chimney corner. Miss Fortune, seating
herself before it, threw in all Ellen's stockings except one
pair, which she flung over to her, saying, "There — I don't
care if you keep that one." Then tucking up her sleeves to the
elbows, she fished up pair after pair out of the kettle, and
wringing them out, hung them on chairs to dry. But, as Ellen
had opined, they were no longer white, but of a fine slate
colour. She looked on in silence, too much vexed to ask
questions.
"Well, how do you like that?" said Miss Fortune, at length,
when she had got two or three chairs round the fire, pretty
well hung with a display of slate-coloured cotton legs.
"I don't like it at all," said Ellen.
"Well, _I_ do. How many pair of white stockings would you like
to drive into the mud, and let me wash out every week?"
"_You_ wash!" said Ellen, in surprise — "I didn't think of _your_
doing it.
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