"O grandmother, but I mean in little things; little words and ways, and tones of voice even. It isn't like Shampuashuh people."
"Well, we're Shampuashuh folks," said Charity. "I hope you won't set up for nothin' else, Lois. I guess your head got turned a bit, with goin' round the world. But I wish I knew what makes her look so sober!"
"She has lost her husband."
"Other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have found another. Don't be ridiculous, Lois!"
The first bait that took, in the shape of books, was Scott's "Lady of the Lake." Lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was free to hold it. She read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty. Charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds.
"What on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the account of Fitz James's adventure in the wood with Roderick Dhu.
"Don't you like it?" said Lois.
"Don't make head or tail of it. And there sits Madge with her mouth open, as if it was something to eat; and Lois's cheeks are as pink as if she expected the people to step out and walk in. Mother, do you like all that stuff?"
"It is poetry, Charity," cried Lois.
"What's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? It seems to me nonsense for a man to write in that way. If he has got something to say, why don't he say it, and be done with it?"