“Well, then she’d show the poor woman, the first one, how to ‘pull’ a rag mat, and would hire her to make one, giving her enough rags from that bag. When ’twas done, she’d praise it up and say how pretty ’twas, ’specially this row, or that flower, and so on; and then pay her for the work.”
“And did your grandmother give the first poor woman’s carpet to the second poor woman?” asked Pet, knitting her brows over the algebraic difficulty of the problem.
“Not herself. She sent it by the first poor woman so’s to let her have the pleasure of giving.”
“How lovely!” exclaimed Pet. “I’m going to have a rag-bag of my very own this winter—with nothing but plush in it!”
“No,” said Bess, “that won’t do; plush catches dust.”
“Who’s up in my hay-mow!” The voice was deep and strong, but entirely pleasant, and so nearly underneath them that the girls jumped.
“O uncle Will,” they all cried at once, “do come up here—it’s just perfect—and tell us a story!”
“If it’s ‘just perfect’ already, I don’t think I’d better come!” Nevertheless the good-natured old man mounted the steep ladder, and was at once allotted the breeziest and softest seat.
“Well, well,” he said, baring his head to the gentle west wind, “this is comfortable. How many times I’ve lain on the hay here, when I was a boy, and dreamed what I would do—sometime!”
“You never dreamed yourself such a dear uncle as you are,” said Bess softly, stroking his hair.