"Don't cry TOO much, darling ... it breaks my heart to think of you there!
TRY to be cheerful, dearest! TRY to bear it for the sake of your
distracted, loving Aunt Frances."
Elizabeth Ann looked up from this letter and across the table at Aunt
Abigail's rosy, wrinkled old face, bent over her darning. Uncle Henry
laid the paper down, took a big mouthful of pop-corn, and beat time
silently with his hand. When he could speak he murmured: An hundred dogs
bayed deep and strong, Clattered an hundred steeds along.
Old Shep woke up with a snort and Aunt Abigail fed him a handful of pop-
corn. Little Eleanor stirred in her sleep, stretched, yawned, and
nestled down into a ball again on the little girl's lap. Betsy could
feel in her own body the rhythmic vibration of the kitten's contented
purr.
Aunt Abigail looked up: "Finished your letter? I hope Harriet is no
worse. What does Frances say?"
Elizabeth Ann blushed a deep red and crushed the letter together in her
hand. She felt ashamed and she did not know why. "Aunt Frances
says, ... Aunt Frances says, ..." she began, hesitating. "She says Aunt
Harriet is still pretty sick." She stopped, drew a long breath, and went
on, "And she sends her love to you."
Now Aunt Frances hadn't done anything of the kind, so this was a really
whopping fib. But Elizabeth Ann didn't care if it was. It made her feel
less ashamed, though she did not know why.
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