“I—I wasn’t crying much!” he answered, choking back his tears bravely. “Only—only I try so hard to do everything!”
“I know you do. There never was a better boy. Jerusha Maria, the little darling, is aggravating sometimes. What did she want then?”
“Only to put her two hands into the fire.”
“You little tyke!” exclaimed the mother, giving a slight shake and then an appeasing kiss to the child in her arms, “and I was cross as fury because he wouldn’t let her do it. There, there, James; never mind what I said. Of course I didn’t mean it. You haven’t a better friend in the world than I am.”
“I know that, how can I forget it? nothing else could have brought me down to crying like a baby. The first cross word brought all your goodness to me, and our people right before me, and I felt like—like a wretch.”
“A wretch! you are nothing of the kind, Jimmy. Don’t think that of yourself—and I haven’t been good to you a bit more than you deserve. Here, now, take Jerusha Maria. She wants to kiss you dreadfully. If she wants to put her hands in the fire, you may—yes, just on this occasion, I think you may shake her a little—not enough to make her teeth chatter, though, because you see they are new and tender yet.”
“I thought you would never trust her with me again,” said James, holding out his arms and smiling, though his thick eyelashes were still wet.
“Trust her with you! there, what does that seem like?” cried Mrs. Smith, putting the child into those outstretched arms, and patting both boy and child into harmony, while her own angry passions gave place to a tender sort of penitence, which extended even to Smith.
“Now, James, take good care of her while I go in and pour out the tea, for I’m afraid its getting cold.”
She did go in, beaming between tears and smiles, like an April morning; and performed the honors of her table beautifully, putting two lumps of sugar in her husband’s cup with a shy look of concession, which did more to brighten his face than the best bar soap had done.