“Yes, I am; I am thinking how you took us all three to look at your cans of tomatoes.”
“But you don’t care about the tomatoes. You never do take an interest in house-work. I would rather have Sue Greyson’s skin stuffed with straw than to have you around the house. And she is going to marry Ralph Towne: she passed with him this morning; they were in the phaeton with that pair of little grays! And Sue was driving! I believe that you have taken cold in some way, you must see the doctor the next time he comes; your face is the color of chalk, and your eyes are as big as saucers with dark rims under them! You sat here writing altogether too late last night.”
“It was only eleven when I went up-stairs.”
“That was just an hour too late. What good does your writing do you or any body, I’d like to know.”
“It is rather too early in my life to judge.”
“Your father spoils you about writing; I suppose that he thinks you are a feather in his cap; I tell him that you are none of my bringing up.”
“I am not ‘up’ yet, perhaps.”
“You may as well drop that work and take a run into Dunellen; the air will do you good. You had color enough in the summer. I want a spool of red silk, two pieces of crimson dress braid, and a spool of fifty cotton. Don’t get scarlet braid, I want crimson; and run into the library and get me something exciting; you might have known better than to bring me that volume of essays!”
She folded the apron and laid it on the pile in the willow work-basket, wrapped herself in a bright shawl, covered her braids with a brown velvet hat, and started for her walk, drawing on her gloves as she went down the path.
Her mother stood at the window watching her. “She is too deep for me,” she soliloquized; “there is more in her than I shall ever make out. She is so full of nonsense that I expect she has refused Ralph Towne, and what for, I can’t see—there’s no one else in the way.”