Ann Mary got up, unfastened the
bedroom door, took the lamp, and stepped out into the sitting-room. The
pounding came again. "Ann Mary, Ann Mary!" cried a voice. It was her
grandmother's.
"I'm comin', I'm comin', grandma!" shouted Ann Mary. She had never felt
so happy in her life. She pushed back the bolt of the side door with
trembling haste. There stood her grandmother all muffled up, with a
shawl over her head; and out in the yard were her grandfather and
another man, with a horse and sleigh. The men were turning the sleigh
around.
"Put the lamp in the window, Ann Mary," called Mr. Little, and Ann Mary
obeyed. Her grandmother sank into a chair. "I'm jest about tuckered
out," she groaned. "If I don't ketch my death with this day's work, I'm
lucky. There ain't any more feelin' in my feet than as if they was lumps
of stone."
Ann Mary stood at her grandmother's elbow, and her face was all beaming.
"I thought you weren't coming," said she.
"Well, I shouldn't have come a step to-night, if it hadn't been for
you--and the cow," said her grandmother, in an indignant voice. "I was
kind of uneasy about you, an' we knew the cow wouldn't be milked unless
you got Mr. Adams to come over."
"Was Aunt Betsey very sick?" inquired Ann Mary.
Her grandmother gave her head a toss. "Sick! No, there wa'n't a thing
the matter with her, except she ate some sassage-meat, an' had a little
faint turn.
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