The widow tried to act as if it were a dispensation of Providence
which should be received in solemn gratitude; but before she knew
it she was laughing and crying, kissing her sweet-faced daughter,
or telling how good and brave Zeb had been when his heart was
almost breaking.
Compunction had already seized upon the widow. "Susan," she began,
"I fear we are not mortifyin' the flesh as we ought---"
"No mortifying just yet, if you please," cried Susie. "The most
important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb hasn't heard the
news; just think of it! You must write and tell him that I'll help
you spin the children's clothes and work the farm; that we'll face
everything in Opinquake as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the
ink-horn? I'll sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and SUCH news
as he'll get! Wish I could tell him, though, and see the great
fellow tremble once more. Afraid of me! Ha! ha! ha! that's the
funniest thing--Why, Mother Jarvis, this is Christmas Day!"
"So it is," said the widow, in an awed tone. "Susie, my heart
misgives me that all this should have happened on a day of which
Popery has made so much.
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