My grandmother allowed a long pause and said reflectively:—
“You’d make any one do-less, Sarah.”
And, indeed, Miss Sarah Grant was one of those energetic ladies who leave no place for the energies of others to expand. But here the wind shifted and her irritation disappeared.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, “it’s too sad. Those children are as little fit to take care of themselves and to live alone as young robins in the nest.”
“The Lord looks after such,” said my grandmother.
“Well,” replied Miss Sarah, with asperity, “you may be sure that after what I’ve seen of this world I’m not going to leave it with the Lord.” She was on terms of familiarity with the Deity that even permitted criticism of his ways. Then she said: “Send Roberta soon to see that poor, fatherless Ellen of mine.”
This my grandmother did, shortly afterwards, and I started forth on my first visit to the “poor, fatherless Ellen” at the slow and elegant gait of a hearse with plumes. We were not far removed from that period when young ladies employed their leisure by limning lachrymose females weeping over urns. We were therefore expectant of a certain pomp of mourning; long, black draperies were the least we demanded. Ellen, I learned, was in the apple orchard, and thither I bent my solemn footsteps.
It was in full bloom, one tree after another looking like bridal nosegays of some beneficent giant. All was quiet save for the droning of honey-bees. Suddenly two inches above my head there burst forth the roars of an infant of tender years. I looked up and there I beheld my tragic heroine. Her dress was of blue, checked gingham, a piece of which was caught on a twig of the apple tree and rent nearly in a three-cornered tear. One stocking was coming down in a manner unbecoming to any girl. Her hair was plaited in two neat little “plats,” as we used to call them, and tied tightly with meager ribbons; but though I took these things in at a glance, that which naturally most arrested my attention was the fact that Ellen cherished to her bosom a large, red-headed infant, whom I immediately recognized as being one of the brood of the prolific Sweeneys.
The child ceased roaring for a moment, upon which Ellen remarked to me with grave self-composure:—
“How do you do? I suppose you have come to play with me, but my brother and I can’t come down for a moment until I have managed to get my dress from that twig. Perhaps you could come up and undo it, or if you could perhaps come and get him—”