I partly know what; and partly I don't; but
something--"
She stopped in the middle of what she seemed to be saying. At first I
thought she had choked up with grief, but when I looked her in the face,
except for her eyes shining very bright, I could not see that she was at
all worked up in her feelings. She spoke quite calmly to some one that
passed by. I was abashed by the thought that she was giving me credit
for something I was not entitled to. She spoke of the day when I was in
my heart the meanest: but how could I explain? So I said nothing, much,
but hummed and hawed, with "I--" and "Yes, I--," and nothing to the
point. Finally, I bogged down, and quit.
"We are very poor," said she, nodding toward the elder and grandma. "So,
ignorant as I am, I kept a school last summer--did you know that?"
"Yes," I said, "I knew about it. Over in the Hoosier settlement."
"I ain't a good teacher," she said, "only with the little children; but
sometimes we shouldn't have had the necessaries of life, if it hadn't
been for what I earned. I can't do too much for them. They have been
father and mother to me, and I shall be a daughter to them. If--if they
want me to go with--with--in circles which I--I--don't care half so much
about as for--for the birds, and flowers--and the people back in our
grove--and for people who don't care for me any more--why, I don't think
I ought to disobey Mrs. Thorndyke. But I don't believe as she does--or
did--about things that have happened to you since--since we parted and
got to be strangers, Teunis.
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