CHAPTER VII

tsprecisenailinthetool-shop.Sheclearedawaytheseveredbranchesandsweptuptheleaves.Herlipstwitchedasshelookedatthestragglingbush.Ithadanoddresemblancetoitsshaken,scrawnydonor,littleCousinGeorgianaherself. “Icertainlyhavemadeanawful-lookingthingofit,”thoughtValancy. Butshedidnotfeelrepentant—onlysorryshehadoffendedhermother.Thingswouldbesouncomfortableuntilshewasforgiven.Mrs.Frederickwasoneofthosewomenwhocanmaketheirangerfeltalloverahouse.Wallsanddoorsarenoprotectionfromit. “You’dbettergouptownandgitthemail,”saidCousinStickles,whenValancywentin.“Ican’tgo—Ifeelallsorterpeakyandpinythisspring.IwantyoutostopatthedrugstoreandgitmeabottleofRedfern’sBloodBitters.There’snothinglikeRedfern’sBittersforbuildingabodyup.CousinJamessaysthePurplePillsarethebest,butIknowbetter.MypoordearhusbandtookRedfern’sBittersrightuptothedayhedied.Don’tletthemchargeyoumore’nninetycents.IkingititforthatatthePort.Andwhathaveyoubeensayingtoyourpoormother?Doyoueverstoptothink,Doss,thatyoukinonlyhaveonemother?” “Oneisenoughforme,”thoughtValancyundutifully,asshewentuptown. ShegotCousinStickles’bottleofbittersandthenshewenttothepost-officeandaskedforhermailattheGeneralDelivery.Hermotherdidnothaveabox.Theygottoolittlemailtobotherwithit.Valancydidnotexpectanymail,excepttheChristianTimes,whichwastheonlypapertheytook.Theyhardlyevergotanyletters.ButValancyratherlikedtostandintheofficeandwatchMr.Carewe,thegrey-bearded,Santa-Clausyoldclerk,handingoutletterstotheluckypeoplewhodidgetthem.Hediditwithsuchadetached,impersonal,Jove-likeair,asifitdidnotmatterintheleasttohimwhatsupernaljoysorshatteringhorrorsmightbeinthoselettersforthepeopletowhomtheywereaddressed.LettershadafascinationforValancy,perhapsbecauseshesoseldomgotany.InherBlueCastleexcitingepistles,boundwithsilkandsealedwithcrimson,werealwaysbeingbroughttoherbypagesinliveryofgoldandblue,butinreallifeheronlyletterswereoccasionalperfunctorynotesfromrelativesoranadvertisingcirc