“She does not hate any one,” said Grandma, softly. “She is young and overzealous at times, and will heartily scold the latest one to incur her displeasure, but she has a loving heart.”
“It’s fine to be young,” said the Mayor, with a sigh; “good-night, madam. I’ve enjoyed my visit.”
“Come again some other time,” said Grandma, with quaint, old-fashioned courtesy, “we shall always be glad to see you.”
“I will, madam,” said the Mayor, and he gripped her hand till it ached. Then he took his hat, and trotted nimbly away.
“Has he gone?” asked Berty, coming into the room a few minutes later.
“Yes,” said Grandma.
The girl’s eyes were dancing. She was longing to make fun of him, but her grandmother, she knew, was inexorable. No one should ever ridicule in her presence the guest who had broken her bread and eaten her salt.
Yet Berty must say something. “Grandma,” she remarked, softly, “it isn’t safe to cut any one, is it?”
“To cut any one?” repeated the old lady.
“To cut the acquaintance of any one. For instance—you hate a person, you stop speaking to that person. You get into a scrape, that person is the only one who can help you out.”