“Why not, Kittie, my Clover?” replied the little woman (with a soft tenderness in her heart that gave a winsome look to her face) as she glanced upward, for Mrs. Dobson was busy at work moving old red and blue chests and things to make room for the fine yellow ears on the floor of a room where her father used to spread the corn to dry years and years before.
“Why, because,” replied Kate, “you look too young and pretty,” she added, “to be Grandma any longer.”
“Well, now, if I ever,” said Mrs. Dobson, but Kate was down the stairs and away, watching for the first load to come. She had stayed in the field until it was half loaded, and she was afraid to stay longer lest it should get home before she could, and she did want so to tell all the hens and Grandma that it was coming.
At last it drew near. Frank was seated on top, just where Kate had thought she might take a ride; but her proposal to mount there had been frowned down by Frank in the most approved manner of brothers to sisters. Harry Cornwall was walking beside the sober old horse, who without doubt kept up a wondering as to what barn his master owned down that lane, since he had never drawn corn there before.
The next load of corn Kate did have the pleasure of taking a ride on, for her father not only gave permission, but lifted her to a seat on a board laid across it, and Kate enjoyed her bit of victory over Frank, to her heart’s content.
After the harvest came many frosts, then dear, beautiful, Indian Summer, which Kate said was just like a whole summerful of days, sweetened and cooked hard, and then November skies and November leaden everywhere; the first snow that didn’t amount to much—Thanksgiving that did, and then winter.
Harry went to school, cut the fire wood, made the fire (Grandma Dobson kept but one fire in her house, except on grand occasions), fed the hens, drew water from the well, went for milk, and everything else that was needed in the brown house in the Lane; and, on Sundays, now that Mrs. Dobson had company, she did not so much mind the long walk to the old First church, even if “the going” was icy and bad, for, as the dear little woman quietly expressed the matter to herself in thought, she did get so much comfort and nearness to something human, in having Harry in the house.
One night, when the moonlight was shining very bright, and Harry thought that he had been sleeping a long time, he awoke suddenly, and lay wondering what he had waked up for, when he heard a sound just outside his door. “It’s a mouse trying to get into the corn room,” he said; but not feeling altogether satisfied, he got out of bed and carefully opened his door just in time to see a shadow steal across the moonlight on the floor.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“O, ’tisn’t a thief; it’s only me,” said Mrs. Dobson.