Mame Holcomb was the only one that Lisbeth went to her house by invite. Mame let it be known that she had invited her, and full half of them she’d asked sent in their regrets in consequence. And of them that did go—well, honest, of all the delicate tasks the Lord has intrusted to His blundering children, I think the delicatest is talking to one of us that’s somehow stepped off the track in public.
I heard Mis’ Morgan Graves trying to talk to Lisbeth about like this: “My dear child. How do you get on?”
“Very nice, thank you, Mis’ Graves,” says Lisbeth.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” the lady pursues, earnest.
“No, Mis’ Graves, nothing—thank you,” says Lisbeth, looking down.
“You know I’d be so willing, so very willing, to do all I could at any time. You feel that about me, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Lisbeth, beginning to turn fire red.
“Promise,” says Mis’ Graves, “to let me know if you ever need a friend——”
And I couldn’t stand it a minute longer. “That’s you, Mis’ Graves,” I broke in hearty. “And it’s what I’ve been wanting to say to you for ever so long. You’re a good soul. Whenever you need a friend, just come to me. Will you?”
She looked kind of dazed, and three-fourths indignant. “Why ...” she begun.