At the corner of the porch she stopped to breathe in the fragrance of the heliotrope blossoms that grew on a riotous bush which seemed to be trying, vine-fashion, to reach the roof.
“Home again, after a day crowded full of unusual happenings,” her thoughts hummed along. “I don’t suppose that anything more can happen in it.”
But Jenny Warner was mistaken, for something of vital importance to her (though she little guessed it) was yet to happen on that day.
Skipping into the kitchen, the girl beheld her grandmother busy at the ironing board. Self rebukingly she cried: “Oh, Grandma Sue, why did you iron today? You promised me faithfully, since I had to go over to the seminary, and then to my teacher’s, that you wouldn’t iron until next week, when I could help. Now you look all hot and tired, and as thirsty as Dobbin was. Please stop and rest while I make us some lemonade.”
The flushed face of the old woman was smiling contentedly as she protested: “I like to iron, dearie. I’m not doing much, just pressin’ out our church-goin’ things. Grandpa Si needed a fresh shirt and I reckoned as how, mabbe, you’d like to wear that white muslin o’ yourn with the pink flowers on the bands, so I fetched it out an’ washed it an’ ironed it, an’ there ’tis, lookin’ as purty again this year as it did when it was furst made. Shouldn’t you think so. Jenny?” This a little anxiously—“or do you reckon we’d better buy you a new Sunday dress for this comin’ summer?”
Jenny whirled toward the clothes-horse where hung the pink sprigged muslin which had been “church goin’” dress for the past three summers. The hem had twice been let down, but, except that the pink had somewhat faded, it was as pretty as it ever had been. “Oh, it’s a love of a dress.” The girl was sincere. “I hope I never will have to give it up. I’ve been so happy in it, and then it matches that sweet parasol Miss Dearborn gave me and the wreath on my white leghorn hat. I’m glad I may begin wearing it tomorrow, Grandma Sue, and it was mighty nice of you to iron it for me, but now, as soon as we’ve had our drink, I’m going to iron your Sunday go-to-meeting lavender dress. Please say that I may. I’ll do the ruffles just beautifully. You will be so vain!”
“Tut! Tut! dearie.” Susan Warner sank down in Grandpa’s armed chair to wipe her warm face and rest while her beloved Jenny made lemonade. “It wouldn’t do to wear that dress to meetin’ if it’s goin’ to make me vain.”
How the girl laughed as she squeezed the juicy lemons that grew on the big tree close to the back porch. Nearly all the year round that tree was laden with blossoms, green and ripe fruit at the same time. “The most obliging kind of tree,” Jenny had often said. “It provides a perfume, delicious lemon pies and a refreshing drink whenever its owners wish.”
“There now, Granny Sue, if only we had ice to clink in it as Miss Dearborn has we’d think that we were rich folks, but it’s real nice as it is.” The girl drank her share with a relish.
“That was mighty good tastin’,” Susan Warner commented. “I wish your Grandpa could have a drink of it. He’s cultivatin’ close to the high hedge. That’s a hot place when the sun is beatin’ down the way it has been all day. Couldn’t you carry a little pailful over to him, dearie?”