My grandmother spoke with a rich Irish accent that it is impossible to indicate, for it was not a brogue, nor a dialect; it was merely a full-throated, and somewhat rolling sound which she gave to certain words. Her language too, was freely sprinkled with Scotch words, and these she pronounced with broad Scotch accent. The combination was delightful, and her blended speech added a peculiar charm to the fascinating stories she could sometimes be beguiled into telling.
"It is strange doctrine, mother, that one may be too pious," answered my aunt, who certainly did not number meekness among her Christian virtues. Nor was my grandmother meek spirited, and a warm argument would likely have followed had not my mother, whose sweet and placid temper was the oil ready, at all times, to be poured on the threatening argument, entered the back door at that moment.
With Dulce, the cook woman, to help her she had been making candles all morning, in the back kitchen—my father having killed a fat beef but a few days before—and on seeing Aunt Martha's horse led to the stable she had but waited to hang up the last dipping, and to tidy herself before coming in to welcome her sister.
"How do you do, Sister Martha," she began cheerily, "I'm more glad than ordinarily to see you; indeed I was just wishing I could send for you to eat some of the suet pudding we are boiling for dinner; I know you are fond of it."
"Yes, suet pudding is a favorite dish of mine," said my aunt, solemnly and with a deep sigh, "but I am little in the mood to enjoy anything this morning, Rachael."
"And what troubles you noo, daughter?" asked grandmother kindly, but with no note of anxiety in her cheery voice.
"I thought you looked pestered, child," added my mother in soothing tones; "take this chair, it sits easier than that one, and tell us what's on your mind."
"'Tis about the letter that came yesterday to Thomas," and Aunt Martha paused, to whet still further her listeners' curiosity, and meantime, heaved another deep sigh.
"Well, Martha, who writ the letter, an' what was't writ aboot?" somewhat impatiently from grandmother.
"'T'was writ by a cousin of Thomas', in Baltimore, to bring him news of his Sister Mary's death, and of her husband's, Owen O'Niel, of the small pox plague within three days of each other," and again Aunt Martha sighed.