Elmira went out forlornly.

Mrs. Edwards began pinning the linen towel carefully over the bowl.

“Let Elmira stay an’ eat her dinner.  I’d just as lives go.  Don’t care if I don’t ever have anythin’ to eat,” spoke up Jerome.

His mother flashed her black eyes round at him.  “Don’t you be saucy, Jerome Edwards,” said she, “or you’ll go back to your spadin’ without a mouthful!  I told your sister she was goin’, an’ I don’t want any words about it from either of you.”

When Elmira returned with her mother’s red cashmere shawl pinned carefully over her childish shoulders, with her sharply pretty, hungry-eyed little face peering meekly out of the green gloom of the great pumpkin hood, Mrs. Edwards gave her orders.  “There,” said she, “you take this bowl, an’ you be real careful and don’t let it fall and break it, nor slop the stew over my best shawl, an’ you carry it down the road to Doctor Prescott’s; an’ whoever comes to the door, whether it’s the hired girl, or Lawrence, or the hired man, you ask to see Mis’ Doctor Prescott.  Don’t you give this bowl to none of the others, you mind.  An’ when Mis’ Doctor Prescott comes, you courtesy an’ say, ‘Good-mornin’, Mis’ Prescott.  Mis’ Abel Edwards sends you her compliments, and hopes you’re enjoyin’ good health, an’ begs you’ll accept this bowl of parsnip stew.  She thought perhaps you hadn’t had any this season.’”

Mrs. Edwards repeated the speech in a little, fine, mincing voice, presumably the one which Elmira was to use.  “Can you remember that?” she asked, sharply, in her natural tone.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Say it over.”

Poor little Elmira Edwards said it over like a parrot, imitating her mother’s fine, stilted tone perfectly.  In truth, it was a formula of presentation which she had often used.

“Don’t you forget the ‘compliments,’ an’ ’I thought she hadn’t had any parsnip stew this season.’”

“No, ma’am.”

“Take the bowl up, real careful, and carry it stiddy.”

Elmira threw back the ends of the red cashmere shawl, lifted the big bowl in her two small hands, and went out carrying it before her.  Jerome opened the door, and shut it after her.

“Now I guess Mis’ Doctor Prescott won’t think we’re starvin’ to death here, if her husband has got a mortgage on our house,” said Mrs. Edwards.  “I made up my mind that time she sent over that pitcher of lamb broth that I’d send her somethin’ back, if I lived.  I wouldn’t have taken it anyhow, if it hadn’t been for the rest of you.  I guess I’ll let folks know we ain’t quite beggars yet.”

Jerome nodded.  A look of entire sympathy with his mother came into his face.  “Guess so too,” said he.

Mrs. Edwards threw back her head with stiff pride, as if it bore a crown.  “So far,” said she, “nobody on this earth has ever give me a thing that I ’ain’t been able to pay ’em for in some way.  I guess there’s a good many rich folks can’t say ’s much as that.”