"Let me relieve you," said Mrs. Hall.
The mother hesitated: "He's so dusty."
"Oh, that won't matter. Oh, what a big fellow he is! I haven't any of
my own," said Mrs. Hall, and a look passed like an electric spark
between the two women, and Delia was her willing guest from that
moment.
They went into the little sitting room, so dainty and lovely to the
farmer's wife, and as she sank into an easy-chair she was faint and
drowsy with the pleasure of it. She submitted to being brushed.
She gave the baby into the hands of the Swedish girl, who washed
its face and hands and sang it to sleep, while its mother sipped
some tea. Through it all she lay back in her easychair, not speaking
a word, while the ache passed out of her back, and her hot, swollen
head ceased to throb.
But she saw everything-the piano, the pictures, the curtains, the
wallpaper, the little tea stand. They were almost as grateful to her
as the food and fragrant tea. Such housekeeping as this she had
never seen. Her mother had worn her kitchen floor thin as brown
paper in keeping a speckless house, and she had been in houses
that were larger and costlier, but something of the charm of her
hostess was in the arrangement of vases, chairs, or pictures.
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