“You should not judge people by their dress or occupation. The boy who saws our wood has a heart larger than many who make far more pretensions.”
Rose tried to pout at what she knew to have been intended as a reprimand, but in the excitement of the jam as they passed out of the church, she forgot it entirely, only once uttering an impatient ejaculation as some one inadvertently stepped upon her sweeping skirt, and so held her for a moment, producing the sensation which nearly every woman experiences when she feels a sudden backward pull, as if skirt and waist were parting company.
With the hasty exclamation, “Who is stepping on me, I’d like to know?” she turned just in time to hear Annie Graham’s politely-spoken words of apology:
“I beg your pardon, madam; they push me so behind that I could not help it.”
“It isn’t the least bit of matter,” returned Rose, disarmed at once of all resentment, by Annie’s lady-like manner, and the expression of the face, on which traces of tears were still lingering.
“Who is that, Will?” she whispered, as they emerged into the moonlight, and George Graham’s tall form was plainly discernible, together with that of his wife.
Will told her who it was, and Rose rejoined:
“He has volunteered, I ’most know. Poor, isn’t he?”
“Not very rich, most certainly,” was Mr. Mather’s reply.
“Then I guess he’s going to the war,” was Rose’s mental comment, as if poverty were the sole accomplishment necessary for a soldier to possess, a conclusion to which older and wiser heads than hers seemed at one time to have arrived.