Mrs. Littlejohn was eating the very nice breakfast which Mrs. Rowe had sent over, and groaning dolefully over it, as Gypsy entered.
“Good morning,” said Gypsy.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Littlejohn, severely.
“I went out to play in the hay with Sarah Rowe, and forgot all about your supper last night, and I’m just as sorry as I can be,” said Gypsy, coming to the point frankly, and without any attempt to excuse herself.
“Oh, of course!” said Mrs. Littlejohn, in the tone of a martyr. “It’s all I expect. I’m a poor lone widdy with a bone broke, and I’m used to bein’clock forgot. Little gals that has everything they want, and five dollars besides, and promises me salmon and such, couldn’t be expected to remember the sufferin’clock and afflicted,—of course not.”
It was not an easy nor a pleasant thing to apologize to a person to whom she had played the charitable lady the day before; and Mrs. Littlejohn’s manner of receiving the explanation certainly made it no easier. But Gypsy, as the saying goes, “swallowed her pride,” and felt that she deserved it.
“I’ve brought you some peas,” she said, meekly.
“Oh!” said the old woman, relenting a little, “you have, have you? Well, I’m obleeged to you, and you can set ’em in the cupboard.”
Gypsy emptied her peas into a yellow bowl which she found in the cupboard, and then asked,—
“Can I do anything for you?”