But before she could add a fourth to the three letters, a heavy foot pounded down the passage, and a stout woman, out of breath, her cap-bands flying, came bustling in and slammed the door.
"Girls, girls, now whatever d'ye think?
'Ere's Purdy Smith come ridin' inter the yard, an' another gent with 'im.

Scuttle along now, an' put them books away!--Tilda, yer net's 'alf 'angin' off--you don't want yer sweet-'eart to see you all untidy like that, do you?
--'Elp 'em, Polly my dear, and be quick about it!--H'out with yer sewin', chicks!" Sprung up from their seats the three girls darted to and fro.

The telltale spelling and copy-books were flung into the drawer of the chiffonier, and the key was turned on them.

Polly, her immodest sampler safely hidden at the bottom of her workbox, was the most composed of the three; and while locks were smoothed and collars adjusted in the adjoining bedroom, she remained behind to look out thimbles, needles and strips of plain sewing, and to lay them naturally about the table.
The blonde sisters reappeared, all aglow with excitement.

Tilly, in particular, was in a sad flutter.
"Girls, I simply CAN'T face 'im in 'ere!" she declared.