Mary E. Wilkins

“ Love looked shamefacedly at the tidy, and made no reply.
"You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amanda. "It's much as ever you do anything at all lately. I don't see what you think you're comin' to, sittin' all day doin' nothin' at all, starin' out of the window. You act as if you was in a brown study. I'd like to know what ails you."
Love murmured something, and twisted herself away towards the window. Amanda surveyed her imperturbably; her words had been impatient, but her manner of delivery calm. She stood over her sister implacably benignant, like an embodied duty. ”

“ People when they overstep their bounds of conduct are apt to step high and wide; poor Amanda had cleared hers well. The frogs were singing in a stretch of low meadow-land that she passed. They would have seemed to her like the chorus of a Greek tragedy had she ever heard of one.
When she got home she sat down with Love and sewed until supper-time. She said nothing about Willis Dale. She got supper early, and cleared it away. Then she got a brush and comb and basin of water, and called Love out into the kitchen. "Come here a minute, Love," said she.
Love crept out obediently. ”

“ Amanda went on, inexorably, "it's about time you stopped. If you've got any proper pride that a girl ought to have, you won't waste time thinkin' about anybody till you're pretty sure they want you to."
Love turned on her sister with a look as if she were feeling for the claws which nature had denied her. "I never said I was thinkin' about anybody," said she. Then she suddenly put her hands up to her face and began to cry.
"There's nothin' for you to cry about," said Amanda, "nor to get mad about. ”

“ She had come to a place in her life where the future closed around her so plainly that, whether she would or not, she could see nothing else. Possibilities seemed near enough to sing in her ears, and all her dreams were turned to giants. ”

“ Love did not attempt to change her dress and make herself smart for him again. Her fancy-work dragged more than ever, but she always tried to be industrious when Amanda was in the room. One afternoon a neighbor called and asked Amanda out in the entry, when she was taking leave, if her sister was well. ”

“ There was something pitiful about the young fellow, in his Sunday suit and light necktie, with his shiny shoes and curly hair dampened and brushed as smoothly as possible. All these little humble masculine furbishings had gone for naught, and he was going home disappointed and hurt after a painfully dull evening. However, he held up his head like a man, and there was a stiffness in his way of taking leave which betokened resentment as well as dejection. ”

“ I should think you'd better get her something strength'nin' to take, Amanda. You know her mother died of the consumption."
"I guess she's well enough," returned Amanda, shortly. "She's always thin as a rail."
But when she went back into the sitting-room she saw Love with the neighbor's eyes; before, she had seen her with her own, to which her desires had been like soft-hued spectacles. That night she tried to get something for supper that Love would relish, but the girl scarcely tasted it. ”

“ I guess he's full as good as your sister—full as good."
"It wa'n't that, Mis' Dale."
"I'd like to know what it was, then."
"I rather guess I talked to Love, an' said some things that made her act kind of bashful. I ain't never had a thing against your son. I've always thought he was one of the likeliest young men in town."
"I ruther guess my son is full as good as anybody that little meachin' thing is likely to get—full as good. I don't know what you think you are, nor where you come from: folks that have had to live from hand to mouth the way you have, an' never have had any parlor. ”