Miss Almeana did not consider it proper to tell what an affliction this had been to her, but with a clear conscience she told, for at least the fiftieth time, how Reuben “took on.” After that came poor brother Joe’s taking on; how, when his wife died, he left his profession to wander about the world, clinging to his baby girl for comfort in his loneliness; how, at last, he came back to the old homestead, sick—body and heart. “He only lived a couple o’ years longer, and most o’ that time he set round with the young’n in his arms,” went on Aunt Mean.
The neighbor had heard it all before, but she was interested.
“Reuben thinks that more’n half what killed him was heartbroke’ness. Mebbe it was. He was allers kinder soft like, and that old fiddle of his’n only made him wuss. I used to hate the sight on it. Think of the waste o’ money! Sold his whole half the farm to buy it—meadow lot and all. I tell you what, I chucked that thing out o’ sight mighty sudden after he died.”
“Did you burn it,” asked her listener, in an awed voice, “after he had loved it so?” Aunt Mean quailed a little.
“Laws! no, Mis’ Bowman, I ain’t quite so Spartan as that. I didn’t have courage. But I stuck it up attic for good and all. It never’ll come down as long as I keep house here, either.”
“Well, I must say, Miss Almeana,” interrupted her acquaintance, anxious to appease the old lady, “you don’t work the child very hard. What does she do, anyhow?”
“She? Oh, what I tell her to. It’s easier to do most everything yourself than be botherin’ round with children. She’s coming on nine, though, and I don’t want it on my conscience that I didn’t do my duty by her—if she is a heathen—so I s’pose it’s about time I broke her in.”
Perhaps a very faint vision of what Chee’s breaking in might mean, rose before the neighbor’s mental sight, for she said, in relenting tones, “Oh, well, I don’t see’s you’ve any cause to hurry. She’s right smart and will learn mighty fast when she once starts in.”
“Humph!” said Aunt Mean, and Mrs. Bowman never quite made up her mind whether she had helped Chee’s cause or not.
While the housewives gossipped, the little girl was wending her way to the clergyman’s house. She did not walk very fast. It was warm and dusty, and she was busily thinking. After all, she was somewhat loath to reach her destination. At last she came to the small, white parsonage. Her heart seemed to pound as loudly as her hand as she knocked upon the door. The minister’s wife herself answered the knock.