“Oh, Mr. Patton!” said the poor woman, and went to fetch the cider, a great content shining in her face. It was a good day when her husband said “Great bobstays!”
Meantime Grandmother was not much missed at the Farm. Manuel indeed seemed more at ease when she was not there; he did not look at her much in these days, nor speak to her except when need was. She never seemed to notice, but was quiet and cheerful as she always had been.
As for Rachel, she saw nothing, heard nothing, but Manuel. She seemed all day in a kind of breathless dream of joy. But she meant to be good to Grandmother. She was glad that Grandmother had given up her room to them, and taken the little back one; she gloried in sitting at the head of the table once more, and ruling all like a queen. Manuel said she was a queen; “Queen Poppy” he used to call her; and Rachel thought it quite true; if only she had had the luck to be born a princess, and Manuel a prince! Yes, she meant to be good to Grandmother.
“Why, Grandmother,” she said one day at table, “your hair is beginning to turn! Look, Manuel! see the white hairs!”
Manuel looked, and his face darkened, but he said nothing.
“I declare,” said Rachel, “that’s queer enough. I’d like to know what care you have, Grandmother, to turn your hair gray. I expect it’s not having any that’s done it.”
“Yes, Rachel,” said Grandmother; “perhaps that is it.”