“Say, Ruth! what do you think of that woman in black—you know, the widow, or whoever she is? Dresses in black altogether; but maybe it’s because she thinks black becomes her,” added Helen rather scornfully.
“Mrs. Mantel?” asked Ruth slowly. “I don’t know what to think of her. She seems to be very anxious to help. Yet she does nothing really helpful—only talks.”
“And some of her talk I’d rather not hear,” said Helen sharply.
“I know what you mean,” Ruth rejoined, nodding. “But so many people talk so doubtfully. They are unfamiliar with the history of the Red Cross and what it has done. Perhaps Mrs. Mantel means no harm.”
At that moment Uncle Jabez reappeared with the heavy rifle in his hands. He was still chuckling.
“Calc’late I ain’t heard Aunt Alvirah talk about this gun much of late. One spell—when fust she come here to the Red Mill to keep house for me—she didn’t scurce dare to go into my room because of it. But, of course, ‘twarn’t ever loaded.
“I was some sharpshooter, gals,” he added proudly, patting the stock of the heavy gun. “Here’s a ca’tridge. I’m goin’ to stick it in her an’ you shall hear how she roars. Warn’t no Maxim silencers, nor nothin’ like that, when I used to pot the Johnny Rebs with Old Betsey.”
He flung open the door into the back yard. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, having slipped in the greased cartridge.
“See that sassy jay atop o’ that cherry tree? I bet I kin clutter him up a whole lot—an’ he desarves it,” said Uncle Jabez.
Just then the door into the other kitchen opened, and a little, crooked-backed old woman with a shawl around her shoulders and a cap atop of her thin hair appeared.