"She isn't going," said Mrs. Henderson, smoothing the shaking shoulders, but Rachel screamed on.

"Dear me!" The parson hurried in at the uproar, his gla.s.ses set up on his forehead where his nervous fingers had pushed them. "What is the matter?"

"That poor child," answered Miss Jerusha, pointing a long finger over at the group in the middle of the kitchen, "is acting like Satan. I guess you'll repent, brother, ever bringing her here."

"'Twas Aunt Jerusha," declared Peletiah bluntly, "and I wish she'd go home."

"Hush, hush, dear," said his mother, looking up into his face.

There was an awful pause, the parson drew a long breath, then he turned to his sister.

"Jerusha," he said, "I wish you would go into the sitting-room, if you please."

"An' let you pet that beggar child," she exclaimed, in shrill scorn, but she stalked off.

Mr. Henderson went swiftly across the kitchen and knelt down by his wife.

"Rachel"--he put his hand on the little girl's head--"get directly up, my child!"

Rachel lifted her eyes, and peered about. "Has she gone--that dreadful, bad, old woman?"

"There is no one here but those who love you," said the minister. "Now, child, get directly up and sit in that chair." He indicated the one, and in a minute Rachel was perched on it, with streaming eyes. Peletiah, having started to get a towel, and in his trepidation presenting the dish-rag, the parson dried her tears on his own handkerchief.

"Now, then, that is better," he said, in satisfaction, as they all grouped around her chair.

"Rachel, there mustn't be anything of this sort--tears, I mean--again.

That lady is my sister, and----"

_"Your sister!"_ screamed Rachel, precipitating herself forward on her chair in imminent danger of falling on her nose, to gaze at him in amazement.

"Yes"--a dull red flush crept over the minister's face--"and--and whatever she says, Rachel, why, you are not to mind, child."

"She ain't a-goin' to sa.s.s me," declared Rachel stoutly.

"Well, I don't believe she will again; let us hope not," said Mr.

Henderson, in a worried way. "However, you are not to cry; remember that, Rachel, whatever happens," he added firmly: "you are to be happy here; this is your home, and we all love you."

"You do?" said Rachel, much amazed, looking at them all. "Oh, well, then, I'll stay." And slipping down from her chair, she seized Mrs. Henderson's ap.r.o.n. "What'll I do? Mrs. Fisher told me how to wash dishes. May I do 'em?"

"Yes, and the boys shall wipe them," said Mrs. Henderson, and pretty soon there was a gay little bustle in the old kitchen, the parson staying away from the writing of the sermon to see it.

But Peletiah and Ezekiel were much too slow to suit Rachel, who got far ahead of them, so she flew to the drawer in the big table where she had seen them get the dish-towels, and, helping herself, she fell to work drying some of the big pile in the drainer in the sink.

"I don't see how you can go so fast," observed Peletiah, laboriously polishing up his plate.

"Well, I don't see how you can go so slow," retorted Rachel, with deft pa.s.ses of the towel over the cup. "My! I sh'd think your elbows had gone to sleep."

"They haven't gone to sleep," said Peletiah, who was always literal; and setting down his plate, half-dried, on the table, he turned over one arm to investigate.

"Of course not, you little ninny," said Rachel lightly. "I didn't----"

"Rachel, Rachel!" said the parson's wife, over by the table. She was getting her material together for baking pies, and she now added gently, "We don't call each other names, you must remember that, child."

"Oh!" said Rachel. She stopped her busy towel a minute to think, then it flapped harder and faster, to make up for lost time.

"Well, go ahead," she said to Peletiah, "and wipe your plate."

So Peletiah, letting his elbows take care of themselves, picked up his plate and set to work on its surface again; and pretty soon the dishes were all declared done, the pan and mop washed out, and hung up.

"What'll I do next?" Rachel smoothed down her ap.r.o.n and stood before the baking-table, a boy on either side.

"Now, boys," said Mrs. Henderson, pausing in her work of rolling out the pie crust, "I think you had better take Rachel down to see Grandma Bascom.

I've told her she's coming to-day, and she's quite impatient to see her.

And, Rachel, you can tell her about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and the boys. And oh, Rachel, be sure to tell her about Phronsie; she does just love that child so!"

The parson's wife leaned on the rolling-pin, and a bright color came into her face.

"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her ap.r.o.n.

"And, Peletiah, go into the b.u.t.tery, and get that little pat of b.u.t.ter done up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"--and she fell to work again--"so I could send her one."

So Peletiah went into the b.u.t.tery and got the pat of b.u.t.ter, and the three started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.

"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.

She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.

"See, dear," he said.

Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all hand in hand.

"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression settling over her thin little face.

"What?" said Peletiah.

"Your Gran; that's what your mother said."

"Oh, no, she didn't," contradicted Peletiah; "we are going to Grandma Bascom's."

"Well, that's the same thing," said Rachel; "she's your Gran, isn't she?"

"She's Grandma Bascom," repeated Peletiah stolidly.

"Oh, dear me! of course! But she's _your_ Gran, isn't she?"--her tongue fairly aching to call him "ninny" again.

"No, she isn't; she isn't any one's Gran--she's just Grandma Bascom."

"Oh!" said Rachel. Perhaps it wasn't so very bad as she feared. She would wait and see.