forget
her vow and send off the two young people with her blessing.

"Eh, but she's a dear young lady," she said, under her breath,
apostrophizing Miss Maybright. "And Mag do set wonderful store by her,
and no mistake. It ain't every young lady as 'ud think of my Maggie when
she's going out pleasuring; but bless Miss Polly! she seems fairly took
up with my poor gel."

No face could look more radiant than Maggie's when she started for the
picnic, but, on the other hand, no young person could look more
thoroughly sulky and downcast than she did on her return. Mrs. Ricketts
was just dishing up some potatoes for supper when Maggie flung open the
door of the tiny cottage, walked across the room, and flung herself on a
little settle by the fire.

"You're hungry, Mag," said Mrs. Ricketts, without looking up.

"No, I bean't," replied Maggie, shortly.

"Eh, I suppose you got your fill of good things out with the young
ladies and gentlemen. It ain't your poor mother's way to have a bit of
luck like that, and you never thought, I suppose, of putting a slice or
two of plum cake, or maybe the half of a chicken, in your pocket, as a
bit of a relish for your mother's supper. No, no, that ain't your way,
Mag; you're all for self, and that I will say."

"No, I ain't mother. You has no call to talk so. How could I hide away
chicken and plum cake, under Miss Polly's nose, so to speak. I was
setting nigh to Miss Polly, mother, jest about the very middle of the
feast. I had a place of honor close up to Miss Polly, mother."

"Eh, to be sure!" exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts.

She stopped dishing up the potatoes, wiped her brow, and turned to look
at her daughter, with a slow expression of admiration in her gaze.

"Eh," she continued, "you has a way about you, Mag, with all your
contrariness. Miss Polly Maybright thinks a sight on you, Mag; seems to
me as if maybe she'd adopt you, and turn you into a real lady. My word,
I have read of such things in story-books."

"You had better go on dishing up your supper, mother and not be talking
nonsense like that. Miss Polly is a very good young lady, but she hasn't
no thought of folly of that sort. Eh, dear me," continued Maggie,
yawning prodigiously "I'm a bit tired, and no mistake."

"That's always the way," responded Mrs. Ricketts. "Tired and not a word
to say after your pleasuring; no talking about what happened, and what
Miss Helen wore, and if Miss Firefly has got on her winter worsted
stoc