It ain't quite as big as Misc Somers's bonnet, but it's
draw'd mour."
Here Rhoda gave a repetition of what Vesta had twice before observed--an
inaudible sniffle, and, being caught in it, wiped her nose on her apron.
"Take my handkerchief," Vesta said, "you are cold," and passed over her
cambric with a lace border.
"What's it fur?" Rhoda asked, looking at it superstitiously. "You don't
wipe your nuse on it, do you? Lord sakes! ain't it a piece of your neck
fixin'?"
Vesta felt in a good humor to see this weed of nature turn the
handkerchief over and hold it by the thumb and finger, as if she might
become accountable for anything that might happen to it.
"I got two of these yer," she said; "Misc Somers made 'em outen a frock.
They ain't got this starch on 'em; they're great big things. I always
forgit 'em. My nuse wipes itself."
"Now come near the fire and warm your feet," said Vesta; "for your ride
from the oceanside, this cold morning, through the forests of the
Pocomoke, must have chilled you through. Lay off your blanket shawl."
Rhoda laid the huge black and green shawl, that reached to her feet, on
the green chest, and smoothed it with evident pride.
"Uncle Meshach bought that in Wilminton," she said; "ain't it beautiful!
I never wear it but when I come over yer or go to Snow Hill. Snow Hill's
sech a proud place!"
She had a way of laughing, by merely indenting her cheeks, without a
sound, just as she expressed the sense of pain; the only difference
being in the beaming of her eyes; and Vesta thought it had something
contagious in it.
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