"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her
apron.
"And, Peletiah, go into the buttery, and get that little pat of butter done
up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"--and
she fell to work again--"so I could send her one."
So Peletiah went into the buttery and got the pat of butter, and the three
started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where
he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.
"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.
She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.
"See, dear," he said.
Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down
the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all
hand in hand.
"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression
settling over her thin little face.
"What?" said Peletiah.
"Your Gran; that's what your mother said."
"Oh, no, she didn't," contradicted Peletiah; "we are going to Grandma
Bascom's."
"Well, that's the same thing," said Rachel; "she's your Gran, isn't she?"
"She's Grandma Bascom," repeated Peletiah stolidly.
"Oh, dear me! of course! But she's _your_ Gran, isn't she?"--her
tongue fairly aching to call him "ninny" again.
"No, she isn't; she isn't any one's Gran--she's just Grandma Bascom.
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