LITTLE HOMESPUN
CHAPTER I.—TWO OLD CRONIES
JUNE morning, clear and cool as October, and everything far and near fairly revelling in the early summer sunshine. The Potomac, blue as the sky above it, sparkling and dancing, the new young leaves on the oak trees shimmering and shining with the marvellous green of springtime, and the dear old Virginia homestead, overhanging the river, never looking more homelike and attractive in all its quiet life. The reason for this did not lie all in the sunshine either. Just outside the door, on the wide gallery, a darling old lady sat knitting, for as darling means “dearly beloved,” no other word could so truly describe her. Everybody worshipped her and regarded her—as well they might—with unspeakable devotion; for darling old ladies, as you very well know, do not grow on every bush—quite to the contrary—a great many old ladies (bless their tired old hearts!) grow fretful and nervous and fussy, and are hard to please, not to say cranky. But who would blame them for this for a minute? Just as likely as not you and I will be cranky enough ourselves, when we have borne the burden of fourscore years, and are pretty well worn out in mind and spirit and body. But here was an old lady who was not worn out. Her hair was white with “the incomparable whiteness of aged hair,” and there were the indelible marks of age on the sweet, earnest face, but this dear old lady was “sunny.” She had had her own full share of sorrows and worries, and she had taken them all very much to heart—as people must whose hearts are big enough to take things to at all—and as tender as hearts really ought to be. But somehow or other, she had learned the secret of not being overcome by the worries and the sorrows, and so, sitting there knitting that peerless June morning, she and the sunshine together seemed to glorify everything about them.