Then she pulled out a little bit
of a red and white handkerchief, an' hides her nose in it. I knew well
enough what she was up to, an' didn't mind her at first, but it ain't
pleasant havin' people makin' faces an' stuffin' their noses before
you, an' so I got up an' asked 'em to let me out. When I was passin'
her I gathered in my rags tight an' held my shawl up to my nose just
like she had done, an' says I, in a whisper, as if to myself, 'oh, you
dirty beggars, let me get away from you.' The people in the next pew
looked back an' laughed, an' I saw the color risin' up in her face as
I turned away. I left the church after that, an' says I, 'there's no
room for the poor to be good, I guess I won't try it again; an' you
can bet I didn't," she added, with an emphatic nod of her bushy head,
and a sparkling wrath in her black eyes.
"But that wasn't right, Girly," said cousin Bessie, "it is not that
way in every church, nor is everybody like those three persons you
happened to come across."
"It's equal to me, ma'am; I got enough of it," she retorted, quickly,
"when its fine on a Sunday now, I go to the grave-yard, my mother is
there an' it's a big place, there's room for all kinds in it. I sit
down an' cry a bit, an' ask her to pray for the poor, for they have a
hard time of it here, but I don't think she can hear me, for I'm not
much the better of my prayers."
Cousin Bessie and I here exchanged glances again. Such a hardened
little heart as this was in one so young.
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