Doris was puzzled. She said the same thing to Aunt Priscilla, who took off her glasses, rubbed them with a bit of old silk and wiped the tears out of her eyes.
"I think we haven't had quite the right end of it," she began after a pause. "I was brought up that way. But then people had to spin and weave for themselves, and help the men with the out-of-doors work. The children dropped corn, and potatoes, and there was always weeding. There was so much spring work and fall work, and folks couldn't be comfortable if they saw a child playing 'cat's cradle.' They did think Satan was going about continually to catch up idle hands. Well maybe if I'd had children I'd 'a' done the same way."
"Oh, you wouldn't, Aunt Priscilla, I know," said Doris with the sweetest faith shining in her eyes. "Elizabeth thought you such a comfortable old lady. She said you never worried at anyone."
"That is because I have come to believe the worrying wrong. The Lord didn't worry at people. He told them what to do and then he let them alone. And Foster Leverett was about the best man I ever knew. He didn't even worry when times were so bad. Everybody said his children would be spoiled. They were out sledding and sliding and skating, and playing tag in summer. They've made nice men and women."
"Oh, I remember how friendly he looked that day he came on the vessel. And how he said to Captain Grier, 'Is there a little girl for me that has come from Old Boston?' He might have said something else, you know. 'A little girl for me' was such a sweet welcome, I have never forgotten it."
"Yes—I was here the night you came. We had been waiting. And the red cloak and big bonnet with the great bow under your chin, and a silk frock——"
"Did I look very queer?" Doris laughed softly.
"You looked like a picture, though that wan't my idea of what children should be."
"Miss Recompense has them put away to keep. I outgrew them, you know. What would you have done with me?"
Aunt Priscilla's pale face wrinkled up and then smoothed out.