“What about the big woman with blue eyes and long braids of yellow hair? She used to have it wrapped close to her head. There were no curls anywhere. She wore very plain dresses—black skirts—”
“And big white aprons,” cried Beth, sitting up suddenly and clapping her hands. Then she laughed joyously. “That was Bena, Adee. Wasn’t Bena funny? She had such funny words.” Then suddenly a new mood came to the child. Getting down quickly from the davenport, she crossed the room and, standing directly in front of Eliza, asked with direct tenseness:
“Where is Bena, Adee? What has become of her? What did you ever do to Bena? She hasn’t been here since I was a little bit of a baby. Where is Bena?”
Eliza shook her head. “I do not know, Beth. I am sorry, but I do not know.”
CHAPTER VII.
There were no playmates at Shintown. The nearest neighbor, Burtsch by name, was nearly a mile away. The family consisted of the father and mother, and Rose who was a year older than Beth was supposed to be. There had been half a dozen children before Rose came, but they had died when mere babies.
Mrs. Burtsch frequently referred to the loss of her children as “the strange working of Providence.” She had a thin, high-pitched voice. She was angular, long-limbed. She wore basques and straight, narrow skirts. Her hair was in a knob behind and drawn so tight that the muscles of her forehead and temple had a habitual upward tendency. As though to maintain an even balance, she always directed her glances toward the earth, and the lines of her mouth went downward. She was ingratiating, self-depreciating, and presumably humble. She was always declaring that she was just as good as Mrs. Somebody-or-other, if she was poor. It was no disgrace to be poor. But it was in her case. Poverty was her shame, for had she and her husband been up and about their work, making the most of their farm in place of trying to sustain themselves with the maxim, ‘Poverty is no disgrace,’ they would have had all the comforts desirable and might have been able to help others. Mrs. Burtsch had a whining voice that got upon one’s nerves after a time. She made a point of coming in to see Eliza, and in an insinuating way found out all she could, suggested where she dared and criticised in her exasperating way. She brought Rose with her. While Mrs. Burtsch talked, the children played, or presumably did so; but Rose’s ears and eyes were wide open. She never missed a word that her elders said. She was a skinny, owlish-looking child who could sit for hours and listen, but whose tongue could run as long and as easily as a ball-bearing machine. She knew every bit of gossip of the country-side, and repeated it with all the insinuating humility which was characteristic of her mother.
Rose and Beth were cutting out paper dolls. Eliza kept at her sewing while Mrs. Burtsch, rocking slowly, slowly, kept the conversation going.
“Beth looks stout, Miss Eliza. I’ve noticed frequently how stout she looks. But then that hain’t no sign that she is going to live. Her own folks might have had consumption. You can never tell. Like mother, like child, you know. Her mother couldn’t have had a constitution to brag on when a little thing like falling on a stone killed her quick like it did. If I were in your place, I’d be mighty careful of her. Don’t let her breathe no night air, and keep her housed up well.”
Eliza had long since passed this stage in child-rearing. When she realized that Beth might be with her always, she set about at once to learn something of bringing up a little girl, just as she had learned all she could about feeding chickens. She had long since discovered the futility of discussing any question with Mrs. Burtsch when the latter had the other view of the case. It was always a harangue and nothing else.