“I’m goin’ to help Mamsie.” David stood in the middle of the kitchen, twisting his hands together anxiously. “I’m getting to be real big now, Mrs. Beebe,” and he stood on his tiptoes.
“Bless your heart!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, making gruel on the old stove, “so you be, Davie.”
“And pretty soon I’ll be as big as—as Joel.” Then he swallowed hard at the sound of Joel’s name.
“So you will—so you will,” said Mrs. Beebe. “An’ you help your mother now, Davie boy.”
“Do I?” cried David. A little pink spot came on each cheek, and he unclenched his hands, for he wasn’t going to cry now.
“To be sure you do,” declared Mrs. Beebe, bobbing her cap at him. “Your Ma told me yest’day she depended on you.”
“Did she?” David ran over to clutch her apron, the pink spots getting quite rosy. “Oh, I’m going to do just everything that Ben and Joel did—I am, Mrs. Beebe.”
“Well, you look out, you don’t work too hard, Davie,” Mrs. Beebe stopped stirring a minute, and regarded him anxiously, “that would worry your Ma most dretful. There, that’s done.” She swished the spoon about a few times, then poured the gruel into a bowl. “Now, then, I’ll give it to Ben.”
“Oh, let me,” cried Davie, putting up both hands eagerly.
“You’re too tired—you’ve ben a-runnin’ all th’ mornin’,” began Mrs. Beebe, yet her stout legs ached badly.