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Updated: May 13, 2025
His big head stuck out before, and his big tail behind; both eager, restless, wondering, in port and aspect. "Now, Bartholomew," said Aunt Blin, in her calmest, most confident, most deliberate tones, "see here! We've brought home a little bird, Bartholomew!"
Not one of those girls who had been talking had anything like a home. What was there for them at the year's end, after the wearing round and round of daily toil, but the diminishing dream of a happier living that might never come true? The fading away out of their health and prettiness into "old things like Miss Proddle and Aunt Blin," to take their turn then, in being snubbed and shoved aside?
"But Aunt Blin is sick!" said Bel. "We must take care of her. What shall we do?" "I'll go and send a doctor; and I'll bring you news. Have you a candle? Stop; I'll fetch you something." He sprang up-stairs, and returned with a box of small wax tapers. They were only a couple of inches long, and the size of her little finger. "I'll get you something better if I can; and don't be frightened."
The bare neck and the dimpled arms showed from among the cream-pink tints like the high white lights upon the rose. Bel had not looked in the glass yet: Aunt Blin was busy, and she really had not thought of it; she was happy just in being in that beautiful raiment in the heart of its color and shine; feeling its softly rustling length float away from her, and reach out radiantly behind.
In the privacy and security of her own room, and with muffins and oysters for tea, Aunt Blin took out her upper teeth, that she might eat comfortably. Poor Aunt Blin! she showed her age and her thinness so. She had fallen away a good deal since she had been sick. But she was getting better. On Monday morning, she thought she would certainly be able to go out.
But on the Monday, the day in which Boston was like a city given over into the hands of a host, when its streets were like slow-moving human glaciers, down the midst of which in a narrow channel the heavier flow of burdened teams passed scarcely faster forward than the hindered side streams, Aunt Blin lay in the grasp and scorch of a fire that feeds on life; wasting under that which uplifts and frenzies, only to prostrate and destroy.
Ye sud ha' considert an auld man's feelin's! He's as blin' 's a mole, my leddy!" "His feelings!" retorted the girl angrily. "He ought to know the mischief he does in his foolish rages." Duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the room. Having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head and pressed it to his bosom.
The old crone puffed up again at this unexpected flare, and went out of the room, plopping her feet on floor and mumbling. Among these ungracious sounds the Captain caught, "Blin' ole fool!" But there was no need becoming offended and demanding what she meant. Her explanation would have been vague and unsatisfactory.
In these adornments he would walk proudly to church, leaning on the arm of his grandson. "I doobt he'll be slippin' awa some cauld nicht," said the other: "his leevin' breath's ill to get." "Ay; he has to warstle for't, puir man! Weel, he'll be missed, the blin' body! It's exterordinor hoo he's managed to live, and bring up sic a fine lad as that Malcolm o' his."
"I don't believe in injustice, Aun' Sheba," said Ella quietly, conscious meanwhile that her cheeks were getting very red. "De heat am po'ful," Aun' Sheba remarked, sententiously. Then her plump form began to shake with mirth. "Dar now, Missy Ella," she added, "de blin' ole woman kin see as fur in de grin-stone as de next one. He'd stan' up fer you agin de hull worl.
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