They conceded that it was a
mystery she had not turned out "gormin'." But that was because Susan
had left her vanity behind with early youth, in the days when, all legs
and arms, she had given up the idea of beauty. Her face was
strong-featured, overspread by a healthy color, and her eyes looked
frankly out, as if assured of finding a very pleasant world. The sick
always delighted in Susan's nearness; her magnificent health and
presence were like a supporting tide, and she seemed to carry outdoor
air in her very garments. The schoolmaster still watched her. She
rested and fascinated him at once by her strength and homely charm.
"I shall call you the Orphans' Friend," said he.
She laid down her work.
"Don't you say one word," she answered, with an air of abject
confession. "It don't interest me a mite! I give because it's my
bounden duty, but I'll be whipped if I want to knit warm mittens all my
life, an' fill poor barrels. Sometimes I wisht I could git a chance to
provide folks with what they don't need ruther'n what they do."
"I don't see what you mean," said the schoolmaster. "Tell me."
Miss Susan was looking at the hearth. A warmer flush than that of
firelight alone lay on her cheek.
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