Olive rose, but she put her hands behind her back.

“Oh!” said Miss Port, dropping her hand, but allowing herself no verbal resentment.  She had come there for information, and she did not wish to interfere with her own business.  “I happened to be here,” she said, “and I thought I’d come and tell you how your uncle is.  He took dinner with us yesterday, and I was sorry to see he didn’t have much appetite.  But I suppose he’s failin’, as most people do when they get to his age.  I thought you might have some message you’d like to send him.”

“Thank you,” said Olive with more than sufficient coldness, “but I have no message.”

“Oh!” said Miss Port.  “You’re in a fine place here,” she continued, looking about her, “very different from the toll-gate; and I expect the Easterfields has everything they want that money can more than pay for.”  Having delivered this little shot at the reported extravagance of the lady of the manor, she remarked:  “I don’t wonder you don’t want to go back to your uncle, and run out to take the toll.  It must have been a very great change to you if you’re used to this sort of thing.”

“Who said I was not going back?” asked Olive sharply.

“Your uncle,” said Miss Port.  “He told me at our house.  Of course, he didn’t go into no particulars, but that isn’t to be expected, he’s not the kind of man to do that.”

Olive stood and looked at this smooth-faced, flat-mouthed spinster.  She was pale, she trembled a little, but she spoke no word; she was a girl who did not go into particulars, especially with a person such as this woman standing before her.

Miss Port did not wish to continue the conversation; she generally knew when she had said enough.  “Well,” she remarked, “as you haven’t no message to send to your uncle, I might as well go.  But I did think that as I was right on my way, you’d have at least a word for him.  Good mornin’.”  And with this she promptly walked away to join Mr. Morris, cataloguing in her mind as she went the foolish and lazy hammocks and garden chairs, the slow motions of a man who was sweeping leaves from the broad stone, and various other evidences of bad management and probable downfall which met her eyes in every direction.

When Miss Port approached the toll-gate on her return she was very anxious to stop, and hoped that the captain would be at the gate.  Fortune favored her again, and there he stood in the doorway of the little tollhouse.

“Oh, captain,” she exclaimed, extending herself somewhat over the butcher’s knees in order to speak more effectively, “I’ve been to Broadstone, and I’ve seen your niece.  She’s dressed up just like the other fine folks there, and she’s stiffer than any of them, I guess.  I didn’t see Mrs. Easterfield, although I did want to get a chance to tell her what I thought about her plantin’ weeds in her garden, and spreadin’ new kinds of seeds over this country, which goes to weeds fast enough in the natural way.  As to your niece, I must say she didn’t show me no extra civility, and when I asked her if she had any message for you, she said she hadn’t a word to say.”