Rosetta Perkins.
“Ruth! Ruth! give me the letter. Thee cannot have read it aright,” said Mother Amy, laughing merrily; for her daughter had read the epistle through exactly as it had been written, without punctuation and with all the imperfect spelling accented as far as was possible to do so.
The daughter passed the paper over into her mother’s hands and curiously watched her face while she endeavored to make its meaning intelligible.
“Well, and what does thee think of it? Can thee guess what mischief those young ones have been after now?”
“No; I cannot,” said Mrs. Kinsolving, after a second and slower perusal. “It does not appear to be anything serious, however. I would not worry about it, if I were in thy place.”
“How can I help it, mother?”
“How, indeed, my Ruth, till thee is made over new! Thee began to worry in thy cradle, and thee will keep it up until the end, I fear. I wish thee would not.”
“There has been something going on that Rosetta has been troubled about.”
“Rosetta is troubled about many things, from ‘pie-crust to religion,’ as thee has so often remarked. It is, likely, something about Abraham and the stock; and we have known Abraham’s trustworthiness these many years, although Rosetta still feels a care over him as if he were a child.”
No surer symptom of Grandmother Kinsolving’s physical improvement could have been found than in her mirthfulness of mood; and those who heard her light jests could easily see where Ruth had acquired her odd ways of looking at life. Mother Amy was religious to her heart’s core, and the sweetness and gladness of her religion shone through her words and lovely features as the light within shines through an uncurtained window on a winter’s night.