“Hm-m. That’s a’most more’n I can say. Didn’t they tell ye nothin’, dearie?”
“Not a thing. Only Papa says: ‘What’s to become of me!’ and Grandmother: ‘We’re ruined.’ But I think Mr. Resolved knows, ’cause he’s sitting down an’ looking unhappy reading. What is it?”
“The miser’ble unbeliever!—even if he is my own flesh an’ blood! Why can’t he turn to an’ do sunthin’, an’ keep a-thinkin’: ‘The Lord’ll provide,’ stidder huntin’ out more trouble from the blessed Book? I’ve a mind ter go in an’ shake him!”
“Why, Mary Jane! Shake Mr. Tubbs!” Steenie’s horrified imagination picturing that lumbago-tortured old man in his sister’s vigorous grasp.
“Well, o’ course, not really. But, I’d like ter know! Here comes the bad news, an’ down flops the hull fambly, an’ goes ter sighin’—furnaces! Stidder ary one liftin’ finger ter see what kin be done ’bout it. That ain’t my way o’ ’terpretin’ the Scripters; an’ I don’t want it ter be your’n.”
“I guess it won’t be, Mary Jane. I don’t like to feel bad, never.”
“No more do I! So—reckin you’ll be as well off out here ’ith me, doin’ sunthin’, as anywheres elset, fer the space o’ the next short time. So—jest set down on the grass there, dearie, an’ hull what berries I’ve got picked, while I get some more; an’ I’ll tell yer all I know ’bout anything.”
Steenie promptly obeyed. Mary Jane’s cheerfulness of temper was very pleasant, and they had long ago become fast friends. “Now—tell, please.”
“Hm-m. Plain’s I understand it, it’s this way: Your pa an’ yer granma has lost every dollar they had in the world. They’re as poor now as I be,—poorer.”
“Well?” asked Steenie, to whom “dollars” and “poverty” conveyed no distinct impression.