Undisturbed and not at all daunted by a reply for which she had not
even listened, aunt Ann raised her voice in cheerful response: "Well,
you be along 'tween three an' four, an' you'll find me ready."
"Mercy, aunt Ann!" said Amelia, beginning to unwind the visitor's
wraps, "what makes you keep houndin' Amos that way? If he hasn't spoke
for thirty-five years, it ain't likely he's goin' to begin now."
Aunt Ann was looking about her with an expression of beaming delight in
unfamiliar surroundings. She laughed a rich, unctuous laugh, and
stretched her hands to the blaze.
"Law," she said contentedly, "of course it ain't goin' to do no good.
Who ever thought 't would? But I've been at that boy all these years to
make him like other folks, an' I ain't goin' to stop now. He never
shall say his own mother didn't know her duty towards him. Well,
'Melia, you _air_ kind o' snug here, arter all! Here, you hand me my
bag, an' I'll knit a stitch. I ain't a mite cold."
Amelia was bustling about the fire, her mind full of the possibilities
of a company dinner.
"How's your limbs?" she asked, while aunt Ann drew out a long stocking,
and began to knit with an amazing rapidity of which her fat fingers
gave no promise.
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