“Say no more about it, for I will never leave you alone, gran’ther, dear.”
“Then quit your fooling and pack the lunch basket for us,” interpolated Patty, who was sewing a new red ribbon into the neck of her waist.
“Yes, do,” added Lydia lazily, from her rocking-chair and novel.
“I won’t, so there!” declared Eva pettishly. “You may wait on yourselves, Pat and Lyd, since you like so well to leave me at home like a poor little ashcat, and go off and have all the fun yourselves. I won’t even help Dan to milk Spots and Dapple! I’m going to sit down and rest and read my love letter over again!” throwing herself into a chair and drawing a large, square, white envelope from her apron pocket and unfolding a closely written sheet, which she began to read with demure interest.
“A letter? Where on airth would that child get a letter?” demanded the spinster, while the twins faced about with equal wonder.
A letter! Why, little Eva had never received a letter in her life, they were sure.
Yet there she sat, demurely rustling the large, satiny white sheets of paper, while its delicate scent of violets exhaled into the room above the kitchen odors of pumpkin pie, caramel cake, and the homely white loaf of salt-risen bread dear to the West Virginian’s heart—the bread his mother made.
“Humph, it smells mighty sweet! Is it from your beau? You don’t mean to say Terry has written you?” demanded Patty sharply.
Eva’s starry eyes flashed angrily at the question, and she answered, with subtle scorn:
“Terry? Why, if Terry had written me this letter I’d take hold of it with the tongs and lay it on the fire.”