“Why, is that so?” says I. “I thought she done it because she thought so much of me.”
And I kep’ on, serene and calm, a washin’ my tea-plates. And Tirzah Ann looked keen at me, and says she:
“Don’t you believe I am tellin’ you the truth, mother? Don’t you believe she does feel above us?”
“Oh, yes,” says I, “I persume you are in the right on’t, though I never should have mistrusted such a thing in the world.”
“Wall, what makes you look so serene and happy over it?”
“Why, I am thinkin’, Tirzah Ann, whether she gets enough comfort out of it to pay her for her trouble. I hope she does, poor thing, for she hain’t got much else to make her happy.”
“You do beat all, mother,” says Tirzah Ann; “you don’t seem to care a mite whether anybody puts on airs and feels above you or not.”
And says I, “That is jest how it is, Tirzah Ann; I don’t.”
“Wall, it makes me mad!” says she, a rubbin’ the teapot hard.
Says I, “What earthly hurt does it do to us, Tirzah Ann? Can you tell?”