"Indeed I am. I can milk cows, churn butter, make garden, take care of chickens, saw wood and split it, wash clothes, and do any other country housework, besides making my own clothes."
The woman who had elicited this information looked slowly from face to face among her acquaintances, and then said:—
"I reckon we're a passel o' fools."
"Oh,—excuse me; but I assure you that I meant nothing of the kind."
"But I do, an' I mean it strong, too; yes, ma'am. We're a passel o' fools. I won't feel over an' above safe until I git home an' take a good long think, an' I reckon the sooner the rest of us go too, the seldomer we'll put our foot in it."
There was general acquiescence in this suggestion; even the tormentor seemed suppressed, but suddenly her eyes glared, her lips hardened, and she said:—
"I suppose that scrumptious dress o' yourn was made o' scraps, too?"
Grace laughed merrily, and replied:—
"You're not far from right, for 'tis made of old Madras window curtains that cost eight cents a yard when new. There wasn't enough of the stuff to cover all my windows here, so I made it up into a dress rather than waste it, for I liked the pattern of it very much. Oh, yes—and there's sixteen cents' worth of ribbon worked into it—I'd forgotten that. But your dress—oh, I shouldn't dare wear one so costly as a black silk. Really, I should think it a sinful waste of money that might do so much good to the poor, or to the Missionary Society, or the Bible Society, or—"
"What time's it gittin' to be?" asked the tormentor. "I'll bet my husban' is jest rarin' 'roun' like a bob-tail steer in fly-time, an' tellin' all the other men that women never know when it's time to go home, an' what a long drive he's got before him, an' all the stock to water when he gits thar. Good-by, Mis' Somerton. Some day I'll borrer that ice-cream machine o' yourn, an' a hunk o' ice, if you don't mind."