Well, things got worse, 'n' one day I was sewin' some things and cryin' over 'em, when I heard a team come along by, and, before I could get to the door, Russell come in, all red for joy, and says,—
"Who do you want to see most, Anny?"
Somehow the question kind of upset me;—I got choked, and then I bu'st out a-cryin'.
"Oh, mother and Major!" says I; and I hadn't more'n spoke the word before mother had both her good strong arms round me, and Major's real cheery face was a-lookin' up at me from the little pine cricket, where she'd sot down as nateral as life. Well, I was glad, and so was Russell, and the house seemed as shiny as a hang-bird's-nest, and by-and-by the baby came;—but I had mother.
'Twas 'long about in March when I was sick, and by the end of April I was well, and so's to be stirrin' round again. And mother and Major begun to talk about goin' home; and I declare, my heart was up in my mouth every time they spoke on't, and I begun to be miserable ag'in. One day I was settin' beside of mother; Major was out in the garden, fixin' up things, and settin' out a lot of blows she'd got in the woods, and singin' away, and says I to mother,—
"What be I going to do, mother, without you and Major? I 'most died of clear lonesomeness before you come!"
Mother laid down her knittin', and looked straight at me.
"I wish you'd got a little of Major's good cheer, Anny," says she. "You haven't any call to be lonely here; it's a real good country, and you've got a nice house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little baby, and you'd oughter try to give up frettin'. I wish you was pious, Anny; you wouldn't fault the Lord's goodness the way you do."
"Well, Major don't have nothin' to trouble her, mother," says I.
"She's all safe and pleasant to home; she a'n't homesick."
Mother spoke up pretty resolute:—