Poor little Elmira Edwards said it over like a parrot, imitating her
mother's fine, stilted tone perfectly. In truth, it was a formula of
presentation which she had often used.

"Don't you forget the 'compliments,' an' 'I thought she hadn't had
any parsnip stew this season.'"

"No, ma'am."

"Take the bowl up, real careful, and carry it stiddy."

Elmira threw back the ends of the red cashmere shawl, lifted the big
bowl in her two small hands, and went out carrying it before her.
Jerome opened the door, and shut it after her.

"Now I guess Mis' Doctor Prescott won't think we're starvin' to death
here, if her husband has got a mortgage on our house," said Mrs.
Edwards. "I made up my mind that time she sent over that pitcher of
lamb broth that I'd send her somethin' back, if I lived. I wouldn't
have taken it anyhow, if it hadn't been for the rest of you. I guess
I'll let folks know we ain't quite beggars yet."

Jerome nodded. A look of entire sympathy with his mother came into
his face. "Guess so too," said he.

Mrs. Edwards threw back her head with stiff pride, as if it bore a
crown. "So far," said she, "nobody on this earth has ever give me a
thing that I 'ain't been able to pay 'em for in some way. I guess
there's a good many rich folks can't say 's much as that."