side door.
"But we should have had to clean house, Rebecca or no Rebecca,"
urged Jane; "and I can't see why you've scrubbed and washed and
baked as you have for that one child, nor why you've about bought
out Watson's stock of dry goods."
"I know Aurelia if you don't," responded Miranda. "I've seen her
house, and I've seen that batch o' children, wearin' one
another's clothes and never carin' whether they had 'em on right
side out or not; I know what they've had to live and dress on,
and so do you. That child will like as not come here with a
bundle o' things borrowed from the rest o' the family. She'll
have Hannah's shoes and John's undershirts and Mark's socks most
likely. I suppose she never had a thimble on her finger in her
life, but she'll know the feelin' o' one before she's been here
many days. I've bought a piece of unbleached muslin and a piece
o' brown gingham for her to make up; that'll keep her busy. Of
course she won't pick up anything after herself; she probably
never saw a duster, and she'll be as hard to train into our ways
as if she was a heathen."
"She'll make a dif'rence," acknowledged Jane, "but she may turn
out more biddable than we think."
"She'll mind when she's spoken to, biddable or not," remarked
Miranda with a shake of the last towel.
Miranda Sawyer had a heart, of course, but she had never used it
for any other purpose than the pumping and circulating of blood.
She was just, conscientious, economical, industrious; a regular
attendant at church and Sunday-school, and a member of the State
Missionary and Bible societies, but in the presence of all these
chilly virtues you longed for one warm little fault, or lacking
that, one likable failing, something to make you sure that she