“Canny, child?”
“Yes, canny. I don’t know what the Scottish people mean by it, but I mean clever, and shrewd, and smart, and quiet, and you keep out of scrapes. Now, when I’m with that provoking creature there,” and she looked disdainfully at Berty, “I feel as if I were a fifty-cornered sort of person. You make me feel as if I were round, and smooth, and easy to get on with.”
Grandma picked up a dropped stitch and said nothing.
“If you’d talk more, I’d like it better,” said Margaretta, dolefully, “but I dare say I should not get on so well with you.”
“Women do talk too much,” said Grandma, shortly; “we thresh everything out with our tongues.”
“Grandma, dear, what are you going to do?” asked Margaretta, coaxingly. “Do tell me.”
“Keep the family together,” said Grandma, serenely.
“The old cry,” exclaimed Margaretta. “I’ve heard that ever since I was born. What makes you say it so much?”
“Shall I tell you?”
“Yes, yes—it is a regular watchword with you.”