“I’m going to wipe them dry,” said David, as she poured the boiling water into the dish-pan. “May I, Mrs. Henderson?”
“You certainly may,” said the parson’s wife, setting the big iron tea-kettle back on the stove. “Now that’s a good boy, Davie Pepper. Get a clean towel in the table-drawer.”
So Davie ran over and fished out a clean towel, and the dishes were soon done and piled on the dresser. And none too soon! Here came around the corner of the parsonage, Miss Keturah Sims to borrow a colander to strain blackberries in.
“I’ve got to make jell this mornin’,” she announced, coming in without the formality of knocking, “an’ my colander’s bust.” Her sharp black eyes, the sharpest pair in all Badgertown for finding out things, as the parson’s wife knew quite well, roved all over the kitchen.
“You shall have it,” cried Mrs. Henderson, running into the pantry on happy feet. “Oh, Davie Pepper,” she cried, as the door closed on Miss Sims, “you don’t know how you’ve helped me!” She stopped to drop a kiss on the soft light hair.
“Have I?” cried David, very much pleased. “Have I helped you, Mrs. Henderson?”
“Indeed you have!” she declared. Then she stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “I remember what your mother once said.”
David drew near, holding his breath. To hear what Mamsie said was always a treat not to be lightly put one side.
“She said,” repeated Mrs. Henderson, “that if any one felt bad about anything, the best way was to get up and do something for somebody. And so you stopped crying and worrying Polly and came over here. And you don’t know, David Pepper, how you’ve helped me! Well, we must get up into the attic.” She hurried over to the broom closet. “Get the dust-pan, David, behind the stove.”
“I will,” cried David, clattering after it.