For one day, at least, John Jay had paid his toll.
CHAPTER VIII.
Boys do not grow into saints in a single night, in the way that Jack's
beanstalk grew from earth to sky. Sainthood comes slowly, like the
blossom on a century plant; there must be a hundred years of thorny
stem-life first.
Mammy soon lost all her fears of John Jay's dying. Although the promise
made to George on the haymow was faithfully kept, he could no more avoid
getting into mischief than a weathercock can keep from turning when the
wind blows.
The October frosts came, sweetening the persimmons and ripening the nuts
in the hazel copse; but it nipped the children's bare feet, and made the
thinly clad little shoulders shiver. John Jay gladly shuffled into the
old clothes sent over from Rosehaven. They were many sizes too big, but
he turned back the coat sleeves and hitched up his suspenders,
regardless of appearances. Bud fared better, for the suit that fell to
his lot was but slightly worn, and almost fitted him. As for Ivy, she
was decked out in such finery that the boys scarcely dared to touch her.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101