In the front yard she pulled a handful of
white lilacs (there was some defect here or she would never have
carried white lilacs in soiled white gloves); and passed out of the
gate. Her eyes were lighted up with anticipations, but ill must
have overtaken her in transit; for when she was seated with Miss
Anna in a little side porch looking out on the little green yard,
they were dimmed with tears.
"The same old story," she complained vehemently. "The same
ridicule that has been dinned into my ears since I was a child."
"Ah, now, somebody has been teasing her about being an old maid,"
said Miss Anna to herself, recognizing the signs.
"This world is a very unprincipled place to live in," continued
Harriet, her rage curdling into philosophy.
"Ah, but it is the best there is just yet," maintained Miss Anna,
stoutly. "By and by we may all be able to do better--those of us
who get the chance."
"What shall I care then?" said Harriet, scouting eternity as a
palliative of contemporary woes.
"Wait! you are tired and you have lost your temper from thirst:
children always do. I'll bring something to cure you, fresh from
the country, fresh from Ambrose Webb's farm. Besides, you have a
dark shade of the blues, my dear; and this remedy is capital for
the blues. You have but to sip a glass slowly--and where are
they?" And she hastened into the house.
She returned with two glasses of cool buttermilk.
The words and the deed were characteristic of one of the most
wholesome women that ever helped to straighten out a crooked and to
cool a feverish world.
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