Lingering just outside the church at the close of services, she waited, shyly hopeful that some one would speak to her. No one paid her the slightest heed. In a land where a lack of hospitality was the one unpardonable sin, this alone was enough to convince her that something was terribly wrong somewhere. But she held her peace until they had completed the tedious homeward journey.
“Maw,” she demanded abruptly, as soon as they were alone, “how come we ain’t like other folks?”
“What air you talkin’ about?” Marthy intoned querulously.
“Them folks in that air Briggs settlement.”
“Wa’l?”
“They looked slanchwise at Paw when we went in an’ set down.” Selina Jo waited a moment, her face clouding at the thought. “An’ them li’l’ old gals looked slanchwise at me, too. Durn ’em!”
“How kin I he’p the way they looked at us?” Marthy whined. “Treatin’ us thatta way just ’cause we air pore.”
“’Tweren’t that, neither,” the girl insisted stubbornly. “Them men—most of ’em—was wearin’ overhalls. The school-teacher said rich folks don’t wear them kind o’ clo’es to meetin’.”
“Tryin’ to git better ’n yore raisin’, air you?” Marthy suddenly showed unwonted spirit. “Wa’l, gal, you kin just make up yore mind to be like yore pore maw an’——”
“I ain’t goin’ to be like you!” The words shot out with sudden passion. “I ain’t!”