watering-pot, and sufficiently divined the state of Miss Peecher’s affections to feel it necessary that she herself should love young Charley Hexam. So, there was a double palpitation among the double stocks and double wallflowers, when the master and the boy looked over the little gate.
“A fine evening, Miss Peecher,” said the Master.
“A very fine evening, Mr. Headstone,” said Miss Peecher. “Are you taking a walk?”
“Hexam and I are going to take a long walk.”
“Charming weather,” remarked Miss Peecher, “ for a long walk.”
“Ours is rather on business than mere pleasure,” said the Master. Miss Peecher inverting her watering-pot, and very carefully shaking out the few last drops over a flower, as if there were some special virtue in them which would make it a Jack’s beanstalk before morning, called for replenishment to her pupil, who had been speaking to the boy.
“Good night, Miss Peecher,” said the Master.
“Good night, Mr. Headstone,” said the Mistress.
The pupil had been, in her state of pupilage, so imbued with the class-custom of stretching out an arm, as if to hail a cab or omnibus, whenever she found she had an observation on hand to offer to Miss Peecher, that she often did it in their domestic relations; and she did it now.
“Well, Mary Anne?” said Miss Peecher.
“If you please, ma’am, Hexam said they were going to see his sister.”