“Oh, well, we mustn’t mind if she is notional and kind of wearing; she’s been sick, and it will take time to get rid of her fretty ways.  Jest be pleasant, and take no notice, and that nice mother of hers will make it all right,” said the woman’s voice.

“How anybody with every mortal thing to be happy with can be out-of-sorts passes me.  She fussed about every piller, chair, trunk, and mite of food last night, and kept that poor tired lady trotting till I was provoked.  She’s right pleasant this morning though, and as pretty as a picture in her ruffled gown and that blue thing on her head,” answered Becky from the pantry, as she rattled out the pie-board, little dreaming who sat hidden behind the grape-vine festoons that veiled the corner by the spring.

“Well, she’s got redder hair ‘n’ we have, so she needn’t be so grand and try to hide it with blue nets,” added one little voice.

“Yes, and it’s ever so much shorter ‘n’ ours, and curls all over her head like Daisy’s wool.  I should think such a big girl would feel real ashamed without no braids,” said the other child, proudly surveying the tawny mane that hung over her shoulders,—­for like most red-haired people all the children were blessed with luxuriant crops of every shade from golden auburn to regular carrots.

“I think it’s lovely.  Suppose it had to be cut off when she had the fever.  Wish I could get rid of my mop, it’s such a bother;” and Becky was seen tying a clean towel over the great knot that made her head look very like a copper kettle.

“Now fly round, deary, and get them pies ready.  I’ll have these fowls on in a minute, and then go to my butter.  You run off and see if you can’t find some wild strawberries for the poor girl, soon’s ever you are through with them beans, children.  We must kind of pamper her up for a spell till her appetite comes back,” said the mother.

Here the chat ended, and soon the little girls were gone, leaving Becky alone rolling out pie-crust before the pantry window.  As she worked her lips moved, and Emily, still peeping through the leaves, wondered what she was saying, for a low murmur rose and fell, emphasized now and then with a thump of the rolling-pin.

“I mean to go and find out.  If I stand on that wash-bench I can look in and see her work.  I’ll show them all that I’m not ‘fussy,’ and can be ‘right pleasant’ if I like.”

With this wise resolution Emily went down the little path, and after pausing to examine the churn set out to dry, and the row of pans shining on a neighboring shelf, made her way to the window, mounted the bench while Becky’s back was turned, and pushing away the morning-glory vines and scarlet beans that ran up on either side peeped in with such a smiling face that the crossest cook could not have frowned on her as an intruder.

“May I see you work?  I can’t eat pies, but I like to watch people make them.  Do you mind?”