unfamiliar things.

Jerome, out in the yard, took his sister by both arms, piteously
slender and cold through their thin gingham sleeves, and shook her
hard, and shook her again.

"Jerome Edwards, what--you doin'--so--for?" she gasped.

"'Ain't you got anything to you? 'Ain't you got anything to you at
all?" said Jerome, fiercely.

"I--don't know what you mean! Don't, Jerome--don't! Oh, Jerome, I'm
'fraid you're crazy, like mother?"

"'Ain't you got enough to you," said Jerome, still shaking her as if
she had not spoken, "to control your feelin's and do up the housework
nice, and not kill mother?"

"Yes, I will--I'll be just as good as I can. You know I will. Don't,
Jerome! I 'ain't cried before mother this mornin'. You know I
'ain't."

"You cried loud enough, just now in the shed, so she could hear you."

"I won't again. Don't, Jerome!"

"You're 'most a grown-up woman," said Jerome, ceasing to shake his
sister, but holding her firm, and looking at her with sternly
admonishing eyes. "You're 'most as old as I be, and I've got to take
care of you all. It's time you showed it if there's anything to you."