"Donald is nearly sixteen," said Dorry with dignity, "and he went on important business for Uncle. Didn't Ben go West when he was much younger than that?"
"Oh, yes, my dear, but then Ben is—different, you know. He's looked out for himself 'most ever since he was a baby. Now, Ellen Eliza," she exclaimed, suddenly changing her tone as the tender-hearted one came in sight, "what in the world are you goin' to do with that lame rabbit you put in the box there?"
"Cure it, Ma. That's what I'm going to do with it."
"Well, if anybody can, you can, I s'pose. But it's layin' so still I'm afraid you'll lose it."
"Charity says only hens lay, Ma," replied Ellen Eliza, suggestively, at the same time hurrying to the box in great solicitude.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby, laughing lightly. "Them children" (here the proud mother turned to Dorothy), "with their lessons and what not, are gettin' to be too much for me. I have to speak as ac'rate as a school-teacher to satisfy 'em. Only the other day, little Fandy took me by surprise. He's the brightest of the lot, you know. Well, I wanted to start the fire, and the matches had given clean out. 'Here's a pretty fix!' says I. 'A fire to light, and no matches!' 'I can help you, Ma,' says Fandy. 'Can you dear?' says I, pleased enough; 'have you got some matches?' 'No, Ma,' says the child. 'Well, how can you help me then?' I says; 'there isn't a spark or a live coal anywhere in the house. I can't light the fire without matches, that's certain.' 'Yes, you can light it without matches, Ma,' says he, in his 'cute, pos'tive way; 'yes, you can.' 'How can I?' says I, more to draw him out than with any hope o' gettin' help from him. 'Why,' says he, bowin' to me as grand as the best, and takin' somethin' out o' his little wescut pocket, 'you can use a match, Ma, and here's one; it's the only one I've got!' Now wasn't that a good catch, Dorothy, for a child o' his tender years?"
"Yes, indeed it was," assented Dorothy, heartily.
"Ma," began Ellen Eliza, who had been listening with much interest, "did—"
"Why, Ellen Eliza! Are you standing there yet? Now don't lay your wet apron down on your sister's poetry you forlorn, distres-sèd lookin' child! She's been writin' like wild this mornin', Mandy has, but I haven't had time enough to read it. It's a cryin' shame, Dorothy, her poetry isn't all printed in a book by this time. It would sell like hot cakes, I do believe,—and sell quicker, too, if folks knew she wasn't going to have much more time for writin'. She's going to be a teacher, Mandy is. Young Mr. Ricketts got her a situation in a 'cademy down to Trenton, where she's to study and teach and make herself useful till she perfects herself. 'Tisn't every girl gets a chance to be perfected so easy, either. Oh, Charity—there's so much on my mind!—I forgot to tell you that Ben found your 'rithmetic in the grass, 'way down past the melon-patch where baby Jamie must have left it. There, put up your sewing, Charity, and you and Dorothy take a run; you look jaded-like. Why, mercy on us!" continued the good woman, looking up at this moment and gently waving her scorching-hot iron in the air to cool it off a little, "you look flushed, Dorothy. You haven't gone and got malaria, have you?"
"Oh, no," said Dorry, laughing in spite of her sadness. "It is not malaria that troubles me: it's living for three whole weeks without seeing Donald."