At twilight I was
often afraid to pass, lest giants and ghosts should show themselves
between uncanny arches. Then all that was needed was a low cluck to
Charlie, and off he would start on a run past imaginary dangers.

It was late in the Spring when grandma gave back my "girl clothes" and
wearily told me she had hired a boy to drive in the cows, and a man to
help to milk; and that Georgia was to look after the house, and I to
take her own place in the corrals, because she was sick and would have
to be cupped and bled before she could be better.

Grandpa came home early next day and everything was ready for the
treatment immediately after the noon meal. Grandma looked so grave, and
gave so many instructions about household and dairy matters, that
Georgia and I feared that we might lose her. I verily believe we would
have slipped away during the operation, had grandpa not commanded us to
stay near, as he might need assistance. In dread we watched every
movement, saw what made grandma's face pale, and where the sore spots
were. Indeed our sympathies were so strained, our fingers fumbled
awkwardly as we adjusted the covers about her weakened form.

As soon as her illness became known, neighbors came from far and near
to help with the dairy work or nursing; and keen was their
disappointment when she replied, "I thank you for your kind offers, but
the children are handy and know my ways."

Regularly she asked me about the cows, and if the goats had been
milked, the eggs gathered, and the pigs fed. She remembered and planned
the work, but did not regain strength as rapidly as she wished; nor did
she resume her place in the corrals, even after she was up and around,
but had a way of coming unexpectedly to see if her instructions were
being carried out.

One day she became quite angry on finding me talking with a stranger.
He was well dressed and spoke like a gentleman, touched his hat as she
drew near and remarked, "This little girl tells me she is an orphan,
and that you have been very kind to her." Grandma was uncivil in her
reply, and he went away. Then she warned me, "Beware of wolves in
sheep's clothing," and insisted that no man wearing such fine clothes
and having such soft hands could earn an honest living. I did not
repeat what he had told me of his little daughter, who lived in a
beautiful home in New York, and was about my age, and had no sister;
and his wish that I were there with her. I could not understand