It was
tasteful.
Mrs. Hall did not ask about her affairs. She talked to her about the
sturdy little baby and about the things upon which Delia's eyes
dwelt. If she seemed interested in a vase she was told what it was
and where it was made. She was shown all the pictures and books.
Mrs. Hall seemed to read her visitor's mind. She kept as far from
the farm and her guest's affairs as possible, and at last she opened
the piano and sang to her-not slow-moving hymns, but catchy love
songs full of sentiment, and then played some simple melodies,
knowing that Mrs. Markham's eyes were studying her hands, her
rings, and the flash of her fingers on the keys-seeing more than she
heard-and through it all Mrs. Hall conveyed the impression that
she, too, was having a good time.
The rattle of the wagon outside roused them both. Sam was at the
gate for her. Mrs. Markham rose hastily. "Oh, it's almost
sundown!" she gasped in astonishment as she looked out of the
window.
"Oh, that won't kill anybody," replied her hostess. "Don't hurry.
Carrie, take the baby out to the wagon for Mrs. Markham while I
help her with her things."
"Oh, I've had such a good time," Mrs.
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