Gypsy concluded to suppress her surgical information.
“Who takes care of you?” she asked, suddenly.
“Nobody! I don’t want nobody takin’clock care of me when I ain’t shut up in a box on the bed, an’clock now I am, the neighbors is shy enough of troublin’clock themselves about me, an’clock talks of the work-house. I’ll starve fust!”
“Who gives you your dinners and suppers?” asked Gypsy, beginning to think Grandmother Littlejohn was a very ill-treated woman.
“It’s little enough I gets,” said the old woman, groaning afresh; “they brings me up a cup of cold tea when they feels like it, and crusts of bread, and I with no teeth to eat ’em. I hain’t had a mouthful of dinner this day, and that’s the truth, now!”
“No dinner,” cried Gypsy. “Why, how sorry I am for you! I’ll go right home and get you some, and tell my mother. She’ll take care of you—she always does take care of everybody.”
“You’re a pretty little gal,” said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a sigh; “an’clock I hope you’ll be rewarded for botherin’clock yourself about a poor old woman like me. Does your ma use white sugar? I like white sugar in my tea.”
“Oh yes,” said Gypsy, rather pleased than otherwise to be called a “pretty little gal.” “Oh yes; we have a whole barrel full. You can have some just as well as not; I’ll bring you down a pound or so, and I have five dollars at home that you might have. What would you like to have me get for you?”
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Littlejohn; “what a angel of mercy to the poor and afflicted you be! I should like some fresh salmon and green peas, now, if I could get ’em.”
“Very well,” said Gypsy; “I’ll hurry home and see about it.”