Another of Grandmother’s friends was Parker Patton. He was bedridden, too—I think we were rather proud of our two stationary (I cannot say helpless) people; he had fallen from a haystack—a strong man he was, in the prime and pride of life—and injured his spine so that he could never walk again.
He was not a pleasant man, most people thought; he had a crabbed, knotty disposition, and who can wonder at it? The first time Grandmother went to see him he snapped at her, like some strong surly old dog.
“Who are you?” he said, bending his bushy eyebrows over his bright dark eyes. “Who is it?” to his wife, who was hovering with anxious civility. “Gran’ther Merion’s widder? humph! you don’t look like a fool, but no more did he. What ye want, hey?”
“Oh, father!” said poor Mrs. Patton. “Don’t talk so! Mis’ Merion’s come to visit with you a spell. I’m sure she’s real—”
“Get out!” said Parker. “Get out of the room, d’ye hear?”
The poor timid soul backed out, murmuring some apology to the visitor, whom she expected to follow her; but Grandmother stood still, looking at him with her quiet sweet eyes.
“You can follow her!” said Parker. “She likes to see company; I don’t! I speak plain, and say what I mean.”
“I’ll go very soon!” said Grandmother. “I’d like to stay a few minutes; may I?”
“If I’m to be made a show of,” growled the cross old man, “I shall charge admission same as any other show. Think it’s worth a quarter to see a man with a broken back? If you do you can stay.”