A tall, square-shouldered woman stalked in from the little entry.
"Oh, Jerusha," exclaimed Mrs. Henderson pleasantly, "this is the little girl that Mrs. Fisher sent us. Rachel, go up and speak to Miss Jerusha."
Rachel went over obediently and put out her hand, which the parson's sister didn't seem to see. Instead, she drew herself up stiffer than ever, and stared at the child.
"Ah, well, I hope she won't forget that she's very poor, and that you've taken her out of pity," said Miss Jerusha.
Rachel started back as if shot, and her black eyes flashed. "I ain't poor," she screamed. "I ain't goin' to be pitied."
"Yes, you are, too," declared Miss Jerusha, quite pleased at the effect of her words, and telling off each syllable by bringing one set of bony fingers down on the other emphatically; "in fact, you're a beggar, and my brother——"
"I ain't, ain't, ain't!" screamed Rachel shrilly, and, flinging herself on her face on the floor, she flapped her feet up and down and writhed in distress. "I want to go home!" she sobbed.
The boys, for once in their lives, actually started, and presently they were across the kitchen, to their mother, kneeling by Rachel's side.
"Don't let her go," they said together.
"She isn't going," said Mrs. Henderson, smoothing the shaking shoulders, but Rachel screamed on.