“I’m ten,” said Nan, “I’m small for my h’age, I know.”
“You are, indeed, small for your age,” I said, “and your age is very small. Why, Nan, whatever you may pretend about it, you are a baby.”
“No, I ain’t,” said Nan, gravely and solemnly, “it ain’t years only as makes us babies or womans, ’tis—”
“What?” I said, “do go on.”
“Well, miss, I b’lieves as ’tis anxiety. Miles says as I has a very h’anxious mind. He says I takes it from mother, and that ages one up awful.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” I said. “I’ve felt it myself, ’tis overpowering.”
“I don’t think you knows it much, miss,” said Nan. “I should say from the looks o’ you, that you was much younger nor me.”
“Mind what you’re about,” I said, “I’m sixteen—a young lady full grown. But come, now, Nan, with all your anxiety, you were merry enough when I came in—you did sing out in such a jolly style,—I thought you such a dear little thing; I did not know you were an old croak.”
“Why yes,” said Nan, half-smiling, and inclined to resume her song, “I’m as light as a feather this mornin’, that’s the Lord’s doing.”
“What did the Lord do for you, Nan?”