I don't know what Grandma Parlin would have thought if she had heard her words chopped up in this way; but it made very little difference to Jennie, who paid no attention at all.
"You're father'll get there," added Dotty; "so I thought I'd tell you."
"Your shoestring's untied," said Jennie, coolly.
"And I don't care now if you are the richest," said Dotty, stooping to tie the string; "for God loves me just as well when I wear Prudy's old things; and so do all the good people in this town, and the minister too; grandma said so. I don't care how much you talk about our old Deacon, or our eating molasses. That isn't anything! Grandma says its harder for rich children to be good, and I told her I was real glad I was half-poor."
"You're stepping right in the mud," cried Jennie.
"And then Grandma said that it didn't make any difference any way about that, if I only loved God; but if I didn't love God, it did."
"There," said Jennie, "I haven't heard half you've said; and I guess you've forgotten all about going strawberrying."
"I almost know grandma won't be willing," replied Dotty; "we've got company, too; see those ladies in the window."
"All the better," replied Jennie, cheerily. "You go in and behave as beautifully as ever you can, and your grandma'll be so busy talking, she'll say yes before she thinks. That's the way my mamma does. Say 'Crossman's orchard,' remember, but don't tell which one."
So Jennie staid outside while Dotty entered the parlor softly, and stood by her grandmother's chair, waiting the proper time to speak.