“‘I suppose you’ve got a girl?’ says I.
“‘No, I ain’t,’ says she; ‘an’ what’s more, I don’t want one. I never seen one yet that they didn’t eat an’ waste more than their work came to, let alone their wages;’ an’ off she went down-stairs.
“Rhody said nothing for a minute, an’ I didn’t, either. We just looked at the baby, an’ it begun to pucker its face and cry a little, ’bout as loud as a young kitten. I thought of Sary’s squaller of a boy, but I didn’t say anything, and when it was quiet Rhody says:
“‘Aunt Nancy, is my baby like Sary’s 230 baby?’ and she looked so pitiful I felt as if I could cry.
“‘Well,’ I says, ‘Sary’s is bigger. Why do you ask that?’
“Her lips quivered, an’ she says:
“‘Everybody ’at sees it says, “What an old-fashioned baby! Poor little thing! Re’ly it’s so odd-looking.” Is it odd, Aunt Nancy? An’ is there fashions in babies? I thought babies were all alike;’ an’ she tried to smile while tears rolled down her white face.
“I tried to cheer her up. She was a baby herself—only a little over eighteen, you know; an’ I went down and made her some toast and tea, and then fed the baby and got it to sleep, an’ left her feelin’ pretty cheerful.
“After that I went over as often as ever I could, and sometimes carried a little somethin’ I cooked to Rhody, but I saw Mis’ Curtis didn’t thank me. Once she’s good as said so—said her victuals was good ’nough for anybody. Says I, ‘Sick folks like strange cookin’ sometimes, Mis’ Curtis, an’ Rhody allus liked my ways.’ Which was an unfortunate thing for me to say, fur Mis’ Curtis she flew all to pieces, and said I put mischief in Rhody’s head.