You see, Aunt Maria was Mary Frances’ great-aunt, and was the aunt of her father also. Mary Frances’ grandmother, the mother of Mary Frances’ father, died when he was a little boy and his Aunt Maria had “brought him up.”
“Mother would like to teach me,” said Mary Frances, “but——”
“Your mother was not brought up right,” her aunt snapped. “What does she know about crocheting? She doesn’t know star stitch from coffee-bean stitch, and as for knitting—I don’t suppose she knows plain knitting from purling! Very queer! A very queer way to bring up a child!”
“But, Aunt Maria, don’t you remember? Mother fell and hurt her arm when she was little and couldn’t use it for such work for years,” said Mary Frances. “Even now it hurts her arm to try to crochet. That is what I commenced to tell you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Maria, “I remember now. But your arm doesn’t hurt, and you must learn to crochet and knit, my dear niece. You are so much like me anyway that you must learn to crochet and knit well. Then you may grow up to be almost exactly like me! Now, I must go set my bread. Nothing ever interferes with my program except sickness or death. You must be like me in that, too.” And the old lady went down the path.
At the gate she turned. “Remember,” she called, “I’ll be ready at seven o’clock.”