“It’s just like me,” Rose said, as she resumed her seat by Annie, listening intently while she told how kind the Widow Simms had been, coming every day to stay with her, and only leaving her at night because Annie insisted that she should.
“I like Mrs. Simms!” was Rose’s vehement exclamation, “and I am glad Tom said what he did about Isaac, who used to saw our wood. I did not tell you, did I? And there’s something real nice about your husband, too. I mean to call her in while I read it,” and Rose ran out to the wood-shed, where the widow was now splitting a pine board for kindling, the newspaper she at first had used, having burned entirely out.
Rose’s manner and voice were very conciliatory as she said:
“Please, Mrs. Simms, come in and listen while I read what brother Tom has written a
