Mary E. Wilkins

“ So Luella Norcross made broth and gruel, and carried them in to old Oliver Weed, and even gave him some of her dry cedar-wood; and people said she was as foolish as old Eliza. All the burly whining tramps, and beseeching pedlars of unsalable wares, who came to the village, flocked to her door, sure of a welcome.
On a summer's day the tramps sat on her door-step, and ate their free lunches, in winter they ate them comfortably by the kitchen fire. Many a time her barn and warm hay- mow harbored them over a cold stormy night. ”

“ Luella's voice had unmistakably an abstracted drawl.
Her sister turned on her. "You don't act no more as if you cared anything about my new bonnet than you would if I was the pump with a new tin dipper on the top of it," said she. "If I was you I'd act a little more like other folks, or I'd give up. It's bad enough for you to go 'round lookin' like a scarecrow yourself; you might take a little interest in what your own sister has to wear."
Luella said nothing; she gathered up her basket of everlasting blossoms again. ”

“ The minister made a rally; he remembered one of the things he had planned to say. "But you've read the New Testament, Miss Norcross," said he, "and you must admit that 'never man spake like this man.' When you read the words of Christ you must see that there was never any man like him."
"I know there wa'n't," said Luella, "that's jest the reason why the whole story don't seem sensible."
The minister gave a kind of a gasp. "But you believe in God, don't you, Miss Norcross?" said he.
"I ain't a fool," replied Luella. She arose with a decided air. "Do you like apples, Mr. Sands?" said she. ”

“ After the meal was finished and the dishes cleared away she told old Eliza to put on her other dress and her bonnet and shawl. She had made up her mind to take the old creature with her; she was afraid to leave her alone in the house, with the murderer next door to spy out her own departure.
When the two women were ready they went out of the yard, and Luella felt the eyes of John Gleason upon her. They went down the road to the village, old Eliza keeping a little behind her mistress. Luella aimed straight for the sheriff's house. ”

“ If I'm a mind to stint myself and pay up Joe Perry's rent it's nobody's business, but I ain? goin' to be mean enough to live on other folks to do it."
The old woman grinned as she ate. Luella had fallen into the habit of talking quite confidentially to her, unreciprocative as she was.
After supper Luella put away the tea-things—that was too fine work for the old woman—then she lighted her sitting-room lamp, and sat down there to make the case for the life-everlasting pillow. The old woman crept in after her, and sat by the stove in a little chair, holding her sodden hands in her lap. ”

“ The poor can show their love and gratitude only by the continual outreaching of their hands.
This evening, while Luella sewed on her life-everlasting pillow, and the old woman sat grinning in the corner, there was a step in the yard. Luella laid down her work, and I looked at Eliza, and listened. The step came steadily up the drive; the shoes squeaked. Luella took up her work again.
"I know who 'tis," said she. "It's the book man; his shoes squeak just that way, an' I told him he'd better come back here to-night an' stay over. It saves him payin' for lodgin'." ”

“ Public opinion was strong against them; very little pity was given to the feeble old man; but Luella viewed it all with a broad charity which was quite past the daily horizon of the village people. "I don't care if they are rich an' able to buy things themselves, we hadn't ought to let 'em suffer," she argued. "Mebbe they can't help bein' close any more'n we can help somethin' we've got. It's a failin', and folks ought to help folks with failin's, I don't care what they are." ”

“ Ansel, mysteriously; "I want to tell you something."
Luella stepped back, her sister bent forward—she still had on the new bonnet—"I went into Mis' Plum's on my way down street," said she, "an' she said the minister wanted to marry the Vinton girl, but she won't have him, 'cause there ain't no parsonage, an' she don't think there's 'nough to live on. Mis' Plum says she thinks she shows her sense; he don't have but four hundred a year, an' there'd be a lot of children, the way there always is in poor ministers' families, an' nothin' to keep 'em on. ”

“ Just then Clara turned her face, and her fine, stern profile showed.
"She'll make him a good wife, I guess," said the old Woman. She turned to Luella, and her voice had an indescribably shy and caressing tone. "I was real glad to see you to meetin' to-day," she whispered. "I knew you'd feel like comin' some time; I always said you would." She flushed all over her soft old face as she spoke.
Luella also flushed a little, but her voice was resolute. ”

“ Him she often lodged in her nice spare chamber, although she distrusted his cleanliness, and she and old Eliza had much scrubbing to do thereafter.
Luella even traded faithfully with a sly-eyed Italian woman, who went about, bent to one side by a great basket of vases and plaster images. "You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself encouragin' such folks," Mrs. Ansel remonstrated, "she's jest as miserable an' low as she can be." ”

“ If she was not in full orthodox flavor among the respectable part of the town, her fame was bright among the poor and maybe lawless element, whom she befriended. They showed it by their shuffling footprints thick in her yard, and the frequency of their petitions at her door. ”

“ P'rhaps I hadn't ought to speak so about Mis' Ansel; she's a real nice woman; all is, she's kind of tryin' sometimes when anybody feels nervous. It's as hard work to get a bonnet onto her head that suits her as it would be if she was a queen ”

“ And the minister ate his apples with enjoyment. Luella filled his pockets with some when he went home. "He seems like a real good young man," she said to old Eliza after the minister had gone; "an' that Vinton girl would make him jest the kind of a wife he'd ought to have. She's real up an' comin, an' she'd prop him up firm on his feet. I s'pose if I let him have that house he'd be tickled 'most to death. ”