“No, ma'am.”
“Take the bowl up, real careful, and carry it stiddy.”
Elmira threw back the ends of the red cashmere shawl, lifted the big bowl in her two small hands, and went out carrying it before her. Jerome opened the door, and shut it after her.
“Now I guess Mis' Doctor Prescott won't think we're starvin' to death here, if her husband has got a mortgage on our house,” said Mrs. Edwards. “I made up my mind that time she sent over that pitcher of lamb broth that I'd send her somethin' back, if I lived. I wouldn't have taken it anyhow, if it hadn't been for the rest of you. I guess I'll let folks know we ain't quite beggars yet.”
Jerome nodded. A look of entire sympathy with his mother came into his face. “Guess so too,” said he.
Mrs. Edwards threw back her head with stiff pride, as if it bore a crown. “So far,” said she, “nobody on this earth has ever give me a thing that I 'ain't been able to pay 'em for in some way. I guess there's a good many rich folks can't say 's much as that.”
“Guess so too,” said Jerome.
“Pass over your plate; you must be hungry by this time,” said his mother. She heaped his plate with the stew. “There,” said she, “don't you wait any longer. I guess mebbe you'd better set the dish down on the hearth to keep warm for Elmira and your father first, though.”
“Ain't you goin' to eat any yourself?” asked Jerome.
“I couldn't touch a mite of that stew if you was to pay me for it. I never set much by parsnip stew myself, anyway.”