Mis' Allen told me they didn't.
She said she thought most folks made their pies too rich, an' her folks
liked them just as well without raisins. An' as for the Simmonses, I
don't believe they see a raisin from one year's end to the other.
They're lucky if they can get enough common things to eat for all those
children. I don't know what's goin' to be done. Here's the dress-maker
comin' to-morrow, an' Cynthy goin' to be married in two weeks, and the
cake ought to be made to-day if it's ever goin' to be."
"Yes, it had," assented Aunt Maria. "We've put it off full long enough,
anyway. Weddin'-cake ain't near so good unless it stands a little
while."
"I know it."
Just then there was a shrill, prolonged squeak. It came from the yard.
The doors and windows were open; it was a very warm day.
"What's that?" cried Aunt Maria.
"Oh, it's nothin' but Fidelia's little wagon. She's draggin' it round
the yard."
The two women looked at each other; it was as if a simultaneous idea had
come suddenly to them.
Aunt Maria gave expression to it first. "Fidelia couldn't go, could
she?"
"Maria Crooker, that little thing! She ain't six years old, an' she's
never been anywhere alone. Do you s'pose I'm goin' to send her a mile to
that store?" Mrs. Lennox's tone was full of vehement indignation, but
her eyes still met Aunt Maria's with that doubtful and reflective
expression.
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