oney and
buckwheat in Indiana for a loaf of mother's dry rye-bread and a drink
of spring-water. And finally I got so miserable, I wished I wa'n't
never married,--and I'd have wished I was dead, if 'twa'n't for bein'
doubtful where I'd go to, if I was. And worst of all, one day I got so
worked up I told Russell all that. I declare, he turned as white as a
turnip. I see I'd hurt him, and I'd have got over it in a minute and
told him so,--only he up with his axe and walked out of the door, and
never come home till night, and then I was too stubborn to speak to
him.

Well, things got worse, 'n' one day I was sewin' some things and
cryin' over 'em, when I heard a team come along by, and, before I
could get to the door, Russell come in, all red for joy, and says,--

"Who do you want to see most, Anny?"

Somehow the question kind of upset me;--I got choked, and then I bu'st
out a-cryin'.

"Oh, mother and Major!" says I; and I hadn't more'n spoke the word
before mother had both her good strong arms round me, and Major's real
cheery face was a-lookin' up at me from the little pine cricket, where
she'd sot down as nateral as life. Well, I _was_ glad, and so was
Russell, and the house seemed as shiny as a hang-bird's-nest, and
by-and-by the baby came;--but I had mother.

'Twas 'long about in March when I was sick, and by the end of April I
was well, and so's to be stirrin' round again. And mother and Major
begun to talk about goin' home; and I declare, my heart was up in my
mouth every time they spoke on't, and I begun to be miserable ag'in.
One day I was settin' beside of mother; Major was out in the garden,
fixin' up things, and settin' out a lot of blows she'd got in the
woods, and singin' away, and says I to mother,--

"What be I going to do, mother, without you and Major? I 'most died of
clear lonesomeness before you come!"

Mother laid down her knittin', and looked straight at me.

"I wish you'd got a little of Major's good cheer, Anny," says she.
"You haven't any call to be lonely here; it's a real good country, and
you've got a nice house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little
baby, and you'd oughter try to give up frettin'. I wish you was pious,
Anny; you wouldn't fault the Lord's goodness the way you do."

"Well, Major don't have nothin' to trouble her, mother," says I.
"She's all safe and pleasant to home; she a'n't homesick."

Mother spoke up pretty resolute:--

"There a'n't nobody in the world, Ann