Rachel wrinkled her brows and thought a minute.
"So she did," she said. Then she set the butter-pat in Peletiah's hand, and
pinched his thumb down over it. "There, hold on to it," she said, "or
you'll lose it again. Now, come on!"
The way back was conducted on slower lines, as Rachel had an anxious
oversight lest the butter-pat should again be taken off on the wind, so
that Peletiah and Ezekiel had a chance to recover their breath, with some
degree of composure, by the time they turned down the lane to Grandma
Bascom's. There she was, sitting in her big chintz-covered chair, resting
after the morning's work, as they found on entering the little old kitchen.
Rachel's eyes had been getting bigger and bigger, though she had said
nothing tip to this time; but when they rested on the old lady's face,
under the big, frilled cap, she burst out sharply:
"Is that your Gran?"
"She isn't my Gran," replied Peletiah.
"No, she isn't," echoed Ezekiel.
"Well, is she Gran?" demanded Rachel impatiently--"anybody's Gran--just
Gran? Say, is she?"
"No, she isn't Gran," said Peletiah, shaking his head of stiff, light hair.
"Oh, dear me! you said so," cried Rachel, in a high, disappointed key.
"Oh, dear, dear, dear! I wish she was." And, terribly afraid she was going
to cry, she marched off to the little-paned window, and twisted her fingers
into knots.
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