Suddenly Aunt Tryphosa swooped like a hen-hawk upon a small piece of bright scarlet flannel, that the breeze had caught away from the protecting folds of the Hearthstone Journal, and landed in the covert of sweet fern just at her feet.
"What's that?" She held up the glowing bit of color, dangling it before Maria-Ann's eyes.
Upon poor Maria-Ann's inflamed sense of injustice, it had much the same effect as a red rag waved before the eyes of an infuriated bull.
She sprang to her feet, snatched the bit of cloth from between her grandmother's thumb and fore-finger, and thrust it into her dress waist, crying out shrilly in her unwonted excitement:
"You let that be, Grandmarm Little! It's my cross and I 'm going on a crusade--so now!"
Aunt Tryphosa sat down rather suddenly in the middle of the sweet-fern patch. Was Maria-Ann going crazy? Her breath came short and sharp; she drew her thin lips still more tightly, and, although really alarmed, braced herself for the combat.
"What 'd you say you was goin' on, Maria-Ann?"
"I never knew you was growin' deef before, grandmarm; I said a crusade." She had raised her voice to a still higher pitch, as she stooped to gather up the Hearthstone Journal, the bits of red cloth, her scissors, and thimble which had fallen from her lap as she sprang to her feet.
"Is that the thing you read me about last winter in the Journal, with the soldiers with crosses on their backs on hosses startin' out for Jerusalem?" demanded the old dame, but in a strangely agitated voice.
"Yes," responded Maria-Ann, promptly, but with less acerbity of manner.