"You shall do all the rest," said her friend; "and now you may talk to me."
She was a trim little old woman, not near so tall as her visitor; very wrinkled, but fresh-skinned, and with a quick grey eye. Her dress was a common working dress of some dark stuff; coarse, but tidy and nice-looking; her cap white and plain; she sat in her arm-chair, setting her little feet to the fire, and her fingers merrily clicking her needles together; a very comfortable vision. The kitchen and its furniture were as neat as a pin.
"I don't see how you manage, Mother Bartlett," Diana went on, glancing around. "You ought to have some one to live with you and help you. It looks as if you had half a dozen."
"Not much," said the old lady, laughing. "A half dozen would soon make a muss, of one sort or another. There's nothin' like having nobody."
"But you might be sick."
"I might be;—but I ain't," said Mrs. Bartlett, running one end of a knitting-needle under her cap and looking placidly at Diana.
"But you might want somebody."
"When I do I send for 'em. I sent for you to-day, child; and here you are."
"But you are quite well to-day?" said Diana a little anxiously.
"I am always well. Never better."