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Updated: August 1, 2024
"Oh, we read," she said, smiling her ready smile. "Yes, read," echoed Miss Suffy and the rest. "We read Sunday-School books, and our Bible, of course. Sometimes we don't go to bed till ten o'clock." "Ten o'clock o'clock o'clock," assented the gentle voices. It was not silly; the smiling faces all wore the sweet, simple look of guileless childhood.
Alone I found her. She was little changed. The brightness had merely gone from her smile. I noticed that her talk was less of her patterns, and more of the gray slabs. She no longer clung to the proud little boast, "I design my own patterns." She was apt to tell what Suffy said, or Polly, or Phoebe, not forgetting Becky, our quilter. "No," she said, when I asked: "Polly was not sick.
Still Miss Suffy sat with her stocking, and Miss Chrissy with her patterns, placid and patient, they were only waiting; yet working as they waited. Miss Polly sighed once in a while over her pans. Miss Phoebe still went to market and distributed small alms to the poor. Ripe in good works and in holy resignation were The Pears. "Our quilter is gone," said Miss Chrissy.
She said in the morning, 'Chrissy, do you ever feel strange in your head? Next morning she did not wake up. Suffy was never as strong as the rest her back was bad; so when she had a sort of fit one day, it was soon over." "You don't you can't stay here all alone?" "No, Mrs. John, Henrietta is with me. You know Henrietta? She belongs to the people down stairs. I shan't forget her kindness."
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