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Endey said, "What she b'en cryin' about?" "Why, when I asked her she jest laffed kind o' pitiful, an' said: 'Oh, only my tom-foolishness, o' course. Said she always got to thinkin' about other Christmases. But I cheered her up. I told her what a good time I always had at my son's, an' how Sidonie jest couldn't do enough fer me.
They most carry me on two chips. My son's wife, Sidonie, she nearly runs her feet off waitin' on me. She can't do enough fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, you don't know what a comfort a daughter-in-law is when you get old an' feeble!" Emarine's face turned red. She went to the table and stood with her back to the older women; but her mother's sharp eyes observed that her ears grew scarlet.
An' I told her to think what a nice time she'd have here 't Emarine's to-morrow." Mrs. Endey smiled. "What she say to that?" "She didn't say much. I could see she was thankful, though, she had a son's to go to. She said she pitied all poor wretches that had to set out their Christmas alone. Poor old lady! she ain't got much spunk left. She's all broke down. But I cheered her up some.
Sech a wishful look took holt o' her when I pictchered her dinner over here at Emarine's. I can't seem to forget it. Goodness! I must go. I'm on my way to Sidonie's, an' she'll be comin' after me if I ain't on time." When Mrs. Eliot had gone limping down the path, Mrs. Endey said: "You got your front room red up, Emarine?" "No; I ain't had time to red up anything." "Well, I'll do it.
We can't think where he's goin' to. D' you happen to know?" "No, I don't; an' I don't want to neither." Mrs. Eliot laughed comfortably. "Mis' Endey, you don't ketch me foolin' with undertakers till I have to." She sat down and removed her black cotton gloves. "I'm gettin' to that age when I don't care much where undertakers go to so long 's they let me alone.
"An' I never will," said Mrs. Endey, grimly. "You've got a son-in-law, though, who's worth a whole townful of most son-in-laws. He was such a good son, too; jest worshipped his mother; couldn't bear her out o' his sight. He humored her high an' low. That's jest the way Sidonie does with me.
Endey saw her coming. She gasped out, "Why, good grieve! Here's Mis' Parmer, Emarine!" "Yes, I know," said Emarine, calmly. "I ast her to dinner." She opened the door, and shook hands with her mother-in-law, giving her mother a look of defiance that almost upset that lady's gravity. "You set right down, Mother Parmer, an' let me take your things.
"I stopped at Orville's mother's as I come along, Emarine." "How?" Emarine turned in a startled way from the table. "I say I stopped at Orville's mother's as I come along." "Oh!" "She well?" asked Mrs. Endey. "No, she ain't; shakin' like she had the Saint Vitus dance. She's failed harrable lately. She'd b'en cryin'; her eyes was all swelled up." There was quite a silence. Then Mrs.
I only told Orville this house wa'n't big enough fer his mother an' me, an' that neither o' us 'u'd knuckle down, so he'd best take his choice. You'd ought to talk!" "Well, if I egged you on, I'm sorry fer 't," said Mrs. Endey, solemnly. "Ever sence that fit o' sickness I had a month ago, I've feel kind o' old an' no account myself, as if I'd like to let all holts go, an' jest rest.
I expect we've both had enough of a lesson to do us." Orville did not speak. He fell on his knees and laid his head, like a boy, in his mother's lap, and reached one strong but trembling arm up to his wife's waist, drawing her down to him. Mrs. Endey got up and went to rattling things around on the table vigorously. "Well, I never see sech a pack o' loonatics!" she exclaimed.
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