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"You're a wonderful housekeeper, Emarine," he said. Then his face grew grave. "Got a present for your mother yet, Emarine?" "Oh, yes, long ago. I got 'er a black shawl down t' Charman's. She's b'en wantin' one." He shuffled his feet about a little. "Unh-hunh. Yuh that is I reckon yuh ain't picked out any present fer fer my mother, have yuh, Emarine?" "No," she replied, with cold distinctness.
"I ain't." There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. The lines grew deeper between her brows. Two red spots came into her cheeks. "I hope the rain ain't spoilt the chrysyanthums," she said then, with an air of ridding herself of a disagreeable subject. Orville made no answer. He moved his feet again uneasily. Presently he said: "I expect my mother needs a black shawl, too.
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.
"Oh, Emarine, here comes old gran'ma Eliot herself! Run an' open the door fer 'er. She's limpin' worse 'n usual." Emarine flew to the door. Grandma Eliot was one of the few people she loved. She was large and motherly. She wore a black dress and shawl and a funny bonnet, with a frill of white lace around her brow. Emarine's face softened when she kissed her.
"It's Miss Presly," said Emarine, resentfully, under her breath. "Old gossip!" " goin' to have a fine dinner, I hear," Miss Presly was saying. "Turkey with oyster dressin', an' cranberries, an' mince an' pun'kin pie, an' reel plum puddin' with brandy poured over 't an' set afire, an' wine dip, an' nuts an' raisins, an' wine itself to wind up on. Emarine's a fine cook.
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