"Dear me!" The parson hurried in at the uproar, his glasses set up on his forehead where his nervous fingers had pushed them. "What is the matter?"
"That poor child," answered Miss Jerusha, pointing a long finger over at the group in the middle of the kitchen, "is acting like Satan. I guess you'll repent, brother, ever bringing her here."
"'Twas Aunt Jerusha," declared Peletiah bluntly, "and I wish she'd go home."
"Hush, hush, dear," said his mother, looking up into his face.
There was an awful pause, the parson drew a long breath, then he turned to his sister.
"Jerusha," he said, "I wish you would go into the sitting-room, if you please."
"An' let you pet that beggar child," she exclaimed, in shrill scorn, but she stalked off.
Mr. Henderson went swiftly across the kitchen and knelt down by his wife.
"Rachel"—he put his hand on the little girl's head—"get directly up, my child!"
Rachel lifted her eyes, and peered about. "Has she gone—that dreadful, bad, old woman?"