her glasses, rubbed them with a bit of old silk and wiped the tears
out of her eyes.

"I think we haven't had quite the right end of it," she began after a
pause. "I was brought up that way. But then people had to spin and weave
for themselves, and help the men with the out-of-doors work. The
children dropped corn, and potatoes, and there was always weeding. There
was so much spring work and fall work, and folks couldn't be
comfortable if they saw a child playing 'cat's cradle.' They did think
Satan was going about continually to catch up idle hands. Well maybe if
I'd had children I'd 'a' done the same way."

"Oh, you wouldn't, Aunt Priscilla, I know," said Doris with the sweetest
faith shining in her eyes. "Elizabeth thought you such a comfortable old
lady. She said you never worried at anyone."

"That is because I have come to believe the worrying wrong. The Lord
didn't worry at people. He told them what to do and then he let them
alone. And Foster Leverett was about the best man I ever knew. He didn't
even worry when times were so bad. Everybody said his children would be
spoiled. They were out sledding and sliding and skating, and playing tag
in summer. They've made nice men and women."

"Oh, I remember how friendly he looked that day he came on the vessel.
And how he said to Captain Grier, 'Is there a little girl for me that
has come from Old Boston?' He might have said something else, you know.
'A little girl for me' was such a sweet welcome, I have never forgotten
it."

"Yes--I was here the night you came. We had been waiting. And the red
cloak and big bonnet with the great bow under your chin, and a silk
frock----"

"Did I look very queer?" Doris laughed softly.

"You looked like a picture, though that wan't my idea of what children
should be."

"Miss Recompense has them put away to keep. I outgrew them, you know.
What would you have done with me?"

Aunt Priscilla's pale face wrinkled up and then smoothed out.

"I've come to the conclusion the Lord knows his business best and is
capable of attending to it. When we meddle we make a rather poor fist
of it. Betty has a lot of morning-glories out there," nodding her head,
"and I said to her 'They're poor frail things: why not put out a hop
vine or red beans? They can't stand a bit of sun, like Jonah's gourd.'
But she only laughed--her father had that way when he didn't want to
argue. When they came to bloom they were sights to behold, like the
early mo