"Come
into the house. I'm getting cold out here."
"What makes that rose-bush blow so when their isn't any wind?"
asked Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.
"I don't see as it is blowing," returned the woman calmly. And as
she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.
"It was blowing," declared Rebecca.
"It isn't now," said Mrs. Dent. "I can't try to account for
everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do."
She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching
eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the
house.
"It looked queer," persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also
the boy with the trunk.
Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to
her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and
plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood.
"You're real nicely situated," remarked Rebecca, after she had
become a little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two
women were seated at the tea-table.
Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver-
plated service. "Yes, I be," said she.
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