“Yes, ma’am,” said Emarine in her very gentlest tone. Her mother had never said “dear” to her, and the sound of it on this old lady’s lips was sweet. “Won’t you come an’ take dinner with us?”
The old lady laughed merrily. “Oh, dearie me, dearie me! You don’t guess my son’s folks could spare me now, do you? I spend ev’ry Christmas there. They most carry me on two chips. My son’s wife, Sidonie, she nearly runs her feet off waitin’ on me. She can’t do enough fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, you don’t know what a comfort a daughter-in-law is when you get old an’ feeble!”
Emarine’s face turned red. She went to the table and stood with her back to the older woman; but her mother’s sharp eyes observed that her ears grew scarlet.
“An’ I never will,” said Mrs. Endey, grimly.
“You’ve got a son-in-law, though, who’s worth a whole townful of most son-in-laws. He was such a good son, too; jest worshipped his mother; couldn’t bear her out o’ his sight. He humored her high an’ low. That’s jest the way Sidonie does with me. I’m gettin’ cranky ’s I get older, an’ sometimes I’m reel cross an’ sassy to her; but she jest laffs at me, an’ then comes an’ kisses me, an’ I’m all right ag’in. It’s a blessin’ right from God to have a daughter-in-law like that.”
The knife in Emarine’s hand slipped, and she uttered a little cry.
“Hurt you?” demanded her mother, sternly.
Emarine was silent, and did not turn.
“Cut you, Emarine? Why don’t you answer me? Aigh?”
“A little,” said Emarine. She went into the pantry, and presently returned with a narrow strip of muslin which she wound around her finger.