Them sisters
o' hers is the master for unfeelin' hearts. Sister Barsett was
a-layin' there yisterday, an' one of 'em was a-settin' right by her
tellin' how difficult 't was for her to leave home, her niece was
goin' to graduate to the high school, an' they was goin' to have a
time in the evening, an' all the exercises promised to be extry
interesting. Poor Sister Barsett knew what she said an' looked at her
with contempt, an' then she give a glance at me an' closed up her eyes
as if 't was for the last time. I know she felt it."
Sarah Ellen Dow was more and more excited by a sense of bitter
grievance. Her rule of the afflicted household had evidently been
interfered with; she was not accustomed to be ignored and set aside at
such times. Her simple nature and uncommon ability found satisfaction
in the exercise of authority, but she had now left her post feeling
hurt and wronged, besides knowing something of the pain of honest
affliction.
"If it hadn't been for esteemin' Sister Barsett as I always have done,
I should have told 'em no, an' held to it, when they asked me to come
back an' watch to-night. 'T ain't for none o' their sakes, but Sister
Barsett was a good friend to me in her way." Sarah Ellen broke down
once more, and felt in her bundle again hastily, but the handkerchief
was again elusive, while a small object fell out upon the doorstep
with a bounce.
"'T ain't nothin' but a little taste-cake I spared out o' the loaf I
baked this mornin'," she explained, with a blush.
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