“No. I cannot do much. I can sew pretty well, and knit in four different ways; I don’t cook much—I mean, I don’t know how to make many things, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read and write, and keep accounts.”
“Can you dance a jig?—and embroider, and work tapestry?”
“No, I don’t know anything of that.”
“Can’t work tapestry! Why, Phoebe!”
“You see, there never was any time,” said Phoebe, apologetically. “Of course, I helped mother with the cooking and sewing; and then there were the children to see to, and I learned Perry and Kitty to read and sew. Then there were all the salves and physic for the poor folk. We could not afford much in that way, but we did what we could.”
“Well, I wouldn’t marry a parson; that’s flat!” said Rhoda. “Fancy spending all your days a-making salves and boluses! Fiddle-faddle!”
Phoebe gave a little laugh. “I was not always making salves,” she said.
“Had you any pets? We have a parrot; I believe she’s near as old as Madam. I want a monkey, but Madam won’t hear of it.”
“We never had but one,” said Phoebe, the quiver coming again into her voice, “and—it died.”
“What was it?”