"I don' know but she did when I was a baby; I never heard her say," returned I, coolly. "Folks don't think much of headaches. Polly Whiting has 'em so she can't but just see out of her eyes. But that isn't like hurting a place on you so bad your mother doesn't dass do it up! I guess you'd think it was something if you cut your foot most in two, and the doctor had to come and stick it together!"
That silenced Fel, and I had the last word, as usual.
It was already quite late in the summer. One day Fel and I were snuggled in the three-cornered seat in the trees, trying to squeeze herdsgrass, to see which would be married first, when Ruthie came out at the side door to sweep off the steps.
"Maggie'll be pleased," said she; "but how we shall miss her little mill-clapper of a tongue."
She was talking to 'Ria, who was going back and forth, doing something in the kitchen.
"Yes, we shall miss her," said 'Ria; "but I shan't have her dresses to mend. I pity poor cousin Lydia; she'll think—"
Then 'Ria's voice sounded farther off, and I did not hear what cousin Lydia would think.
"Put your head down here, Fel Allen. I've found out something," whispered I, starting suddenly, and tearing my "tyer" on a nail.
"I'm going to cousin Lydia Tenney's."