"Don't hurry yourself. Just cool off and then you'll feel better after
such a long ride. Shall I send Polly to the spring-house for some cold
milk?" asked the lady of the house, folding the flimsy crepe token of
Sary's state of widowhood.
"G'wan now, Miss Brewster--I'm no infant!" scoffed Sary. "Don' cher
know a fat bein' mustn't tech milk 'cause it's more fattenin'?"
The hostess refrained from giving her opinion, but she busied herself
with unpinning the rusty black plush cape that the widow had donned
when she began her journey to new surroundings. Being quite rested by
this time, Sary gripped a hold on each arm of the rocker and managed to
hoist her bulky form out from the too close embrace of the senseless
wooden arms.
"Now ef Polly er you-all 'll show me what to bunk, Ah ricken Ah'll
change my Sunday-best an' pitch inter work," said the willing help.
"Polly, you drag the box in while I show Sary her room," called Mrs.
Brewster, coming to the door that opened from the living-room directly
into John's chamber--now to be a guest room.
CHAPTER IV
THE "SERVANT PROBLEM" SOLVED
In the wild mountain regions of the Rockies, where maids are unheard
of, and the "hotels" provide the most primitive service, the house-
wives have little concern over the perplexing question of "help" as
experienced in large cities.
If it is necessary to assist a neighbor who is marrying off a daughter
and wants to provide her with a trousseau, a sewing-bee is arranged and
ranchers' families for miles around drive in and visit.
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