Fisher sent us. Rachel, go up and speak to Miss Jerusha."
Rachel went over obediently and put out her hand, which the parson's sister
didn't seem to see. Instead, she drew herself up stiffer than ever, and
stared at the child.
"Ah, well, I hope she won't forget that she's very poor, and that you've
taken her out of pity," said Miss Jerusha.
Rachel started back as if shot, and her black eyes flashed. "I ain't poor,"
she screamed. "I ain't goin' to be pitied."
"Yes, you are, too," declared Miss Jerusha, quite pleased at the effect of
her words, and telling off each syllable by bringing one set of bony
fingers down on the other emphatically; "in fact, you're a beggar, and my
brother----"
"I ain't, ain't, ain't!" screamed Rachel shrilly, and, flinging herself on
her face on the floor, she flapped her feet up and down and writhed in
distress. "I want to go home!" she sobbed.
The boys, for once in their lives, actually started, and presently they
were across the kitchen, to their mother, kneeling by Rachel's side.
"Don't let her go," they said together.
"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 glasses 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.
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